


THE DANGERS OF KNITTING

by deaddennis



Series: hobbies and other deadly perils [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman: The Animated Series
Genre: BatCat, Borrowing freely from canon, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Childhood, Crack Treated Seriously, Damian Wayne-centric, Domestication, F/M, Good Parent Selina Kyle, I mean, Mind Control, Motherhood, POV Selina Kyle, Raising Damian Wayne, Selina Kyle-centric, She tries, Timelines shifted, Zatanna is the worst, alternative universe, he tries, knit a sweater, rescue the child, save the day, selina can't knit but she tries, the circumstances of my death have been greatly exaggerated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:42:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 35,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22040506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deaddennis/pseuds/deaddennis
Summary: Catwoman’s accidentally faked her own death. Now, free from Gotham and attempting to take up a new hobby, she finds herself rescuing a little boy - heir to Ra's Al Ghul, the Demon's Head himself.Probably not her wisest decision ever, but neither is it her worst ...
Relationships: Batman/Catwoman, Bruce Wayne/Selina Kyle
Series: hobbies and other deadly perils [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1939255
Comments: 367
Kudos: 658





	1. Suddenly, Selina Kyle is a Saint

Okay. Look. I’m not a good person. No one has ever looked at me and said, ‘gee, that Selina Kyle! That’s one good person.’

It just doesn’t happen.

I mean – let’s be perfectly honest here – I’ve not been _trying_ to get people to say that about me. It’s never been one of my priorities.

But here I am, in the picturesque Himalayas and to my unpleasant surprise, some saint or angel or _some-bloody-something_ (if it’s a conscience … you wake up _now_?! Batman will be so happy; He might even … grunt.) has taken hold of one of my shoulders and is whispering in my ear.

I’m about to do something incredibly stupid.

And all because I wanted the wool of an extinct species of sheep.

Damn it.

‘Take up a hobby,’ Ivy said. ‘Grow some orchids’

(I’d kill them – I can just picture it. Not enough water! Whoops! They’re brown and wilted and then BOOM! Ivy at my doorstep, ready to take vengeance for the death of her children. I need to grow plants like I need a hole in the head)

“Colouring,” my therapist suggested. “It will soothe you.”

Colouring.

…

She’s not my therapist anymore.

Where am I? The Himalayas. In a monastery. In a bare chamber with nothing but a bed (no mattress, no pillows - what is this? The retirement place for people wanting to punish themselves?) and a window with a stunning view. The moon is bright tonight, and the stares shine more brilliantly than diamonds. Magnificent mountains stand tall like overbearing shadows, moon washed clouds resting between them.

What a view.

A quiet snuffling.

Ah. Yes. A bed, a window, a view, and a little boy, lying naked in opposite corner, the moonlight revealing a body made dark with bruises.

Footsteps from the hall, I slide behind the door and wait for them to pass.

HOW THE HELL DID I GET MYSELF INTO THIS?

I wanted a wool from a newly extinct species of sheep

I heard a rumour

I followed the rumour to the ground

Climbed a mountain or two

Found this ‘monastery’

Am in the process of robbing it

Hiding from Surprise Awake Monks!

Found this room

Found this boy

Hit a moral quandary

I’m not a good person, but I’m not a bad person either. (Something the Almighty Bat could never understand – grey areas. They exist. Just check out politics. Whole countries and modern democracy run on the fragrant fumes of corruption. And _I’m_ the one being accused of being in the wrong. If the whole system is broken … ah well. Capitalism.)

It would be stupid and naïve to think that this boy is being well treated. I noticed him three days ago, while I was watching the monastery (which is just as much a monastery as I am the Queen of England). He was being trained in the courtyard.

Nothing unusual about that – there was more than one person receiving training in the courtyard. But he was the only child.

About three, I would say. Or two, if he’s a bigger child.

Call me stupid, but I don’t think that’s a healthy upbringing. Especially the charming little exercise where they beat him till he bled and then demanded him to get back in position _again_.

And then, when I finally made my first foray (no wool, damn it) yesterday evening, I found his study; a room, stupendously furnished with thick rugs and big chairs and floor to ceiling bookshelves.

Pretty sweet set up. For a _bookworm_.

I should have left it. But then I eavesdropped. And yes, sure, curiosity didn’t kill the cat, but it awoke a conscience. Ugh. A _conscience._

And now here I am – looking for _yarn_. And kidnapping a kid.

Batman, I blame you.

Okay. I’ve never stolen a kid before. Didn’t plan on this being my new hobby. But there we go, I’m a thief and I’m branching out.

I step over to the kid, and lean down. I gather him in my arms. He’s light as a feather and something in me – that I’ll never admit to a soul – snaps.

How _dare_ they? I think.

And then, just as the kid begins to stir, I take us both to the window.

And leap.

Cold mountain air embraces me, the stars twinkle down, one arm tucks a child to me, the other holding the line. And that thin, sultry, deceptive echo of everything I’ve wanted to leave behind throbs – just a little bit.

A whiff of adventure and the cat will purr.

Only, tonight, with the kid in my arm and my memory of what they were doing to him, of what they were saying … Gotham seems very far away.

Pick a hobby, Ivy said.

Well, look at me now, just look at me now.

Selina Kyle, Catwoman, Feline Fatale and Saviour to A Random Child I Found Who I Think Is In Training To Be A Mini Man Killing And World Conquering Demon.

A Random Child Who Is Possibly Less Than Three Years Old.

Child rearing just isn’t what it used to be nowadays.

\---

I regret everything.

“Return me to my home,” the kid demands. Again.

I’m applying an antiseptic cream to his many, _many_ bruises.

“No,” I say. Again.

“Who are you to kidnap me, Gwandson to Wa’s Al Ghul?”

Yeah. Oh _shit_ , I think you’re thinking.

Turns out that this kid is connected to the League of Shadows. _And I still don’t have my damn wool_.

“I’m your guardian angel, kid.”

“Tt. Our definitions would vawy.”

Another wound – this one open and oozing on his ribs. Seriously. _Who does this to a child?_ Oh wait. The League of Shadows.

Clearly Talia is winning _all_ the awards for child rearing. I can just see her accepting Mother of the Year and then launching into a speech. A long, long, longggg speech that is so verbose and boring that it ends with everyone stabbing themselves in the eye with a fork.

The child glares at me.

“I shall slay you, you insig- insignificant _worm_.”

And then, of course, he launches himself at me and attempts to stab me in the neck with a dagger. Again.

It’s like a baby lion try and attack you. It’s cute. It’s intensely annoying.

THE KID

He has black hair, green eyes, and a short nose.

He is also as hard to keep in one place as an oiled pig*

*I’ve only tried to do that once. In the end, I shot the pig. Nobody has time for that.


	2. INTERLUDE OF BAT MEMORIES

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wasn’t feeling all too ready to play our worn-out game. Talk about chasing your tail, it had been years and still we played the same old song.

I was in the middle of a highly involved extraction of a nice little diamond piece, when the gravel like voice of Batman told me that (and I quote) ‘that doesn’t belong to you’.

World’s Greatest Detective standing right here, ladies and gentlemen.

I ignored him. That night, I wasn’t feeling all too ready to play our worn-out game. Talk about chasing your tail, it had been years and still we played the same old song.

Batman didn’t like being ignored.

“Catwoman, return the necklace to its case.”

Usually, I would have pulled my ‘seduce and confuse the hell out of Batman’ routine out of the bag. It was always fun. And a girl had to have her fun, right? But that night? Hell no.

“Let me think about it …” I said as I slipped the necklace into my pouch and smiled kindly at the false one I’d left in its place. “Hmmmm, how about – no?”

“Not an option.” He was closer now. Behind me. Bad move on my part. You should never leave your back vulnerable: Gotham Survival 101.

But unfortunately, I wasn’t feeling up to strategizing. To playing our game.

To _pandering_ to him.

To being the good little kitten who did as he expected. Always just out of reach for him, but always willing to come when he beckoned. Always ready to play.

_Pathetic._

I'd been _pathetic._

I didn’t turn and slink up to him, run my hand over the bat insignia, and kiss him.

I turned and kissed him. With my foot.

Claws out, ready to scratch.

We fought. I think he was bewildered – I’d never _fought_ before. Not properly. Shown my claws? Oh yes. But _fought_? Without laughter or sly comments? No. I fought him. I put every ounce of my training, every scrap of energy and anger I could summon and I flung it at him.

He won – I let him, in the end. I’d had enough. He was holding me down on a nearby rooftop. I was panting, sucking air desperately into my lungs. He wasn’t cool and collected either. He was panting. Blood dripping from where my claws had found purchase.

“Catwoman. Why?” he growled out.

“Because you’re a goddamn hypocrite, handsome,” I spat out my petname for him like an insult. “You break the law time and time again and judge me, for merely stealing what people don’t need, and insurance companies will cover.”

“I break the law to enforce it,” the big-headed lummox had the audacity to say.

I glared up at him. His face so close to mine.

His mouth so close to mine.

I kissed him. Sue me. I’m a selfish idiot.

He kissed me back.

And then I thrust him away and stood, reaching into my pouch and flinging the necklace at him. He caught it with deftness.

“Here,” I said. “I’m sure you’ll sleep well tonight, knowing you’ve recovered a rich ass’s bauble.”

I clapped my hands together in mocking applause, taking one step and then another away from him. “Bravo, Batman. Keeping Gotham safe, protecting her citizens, one rich prick at a time.”

I wasn’t being fair to him. But then, he’d never been fair to me, had he?

“Selina. What’s wrong?”

Framed against the city skyline, I stared at his outline. I remembered the first time I ever saw him. The first time I kissed him. The first time he kissed me back. And the first time he told me that a relationship between us would never work because I bent the law a little. (I may have paraphrased that.)

“Nothing,” I told him. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t bitter. (And dramatic, but mostly bitter.) “I’m just seeing the truth for the first time.”

I leapt off the roof. Leaving him with a false necklace in his hands.

What? You think I’d give the original up?

_Puh-lease._


	3. Snapshot of Selina Kyle's Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I’ve suddenly acquired a small demon child, which is a nice distraction from my little crisis.

Gotham and I are on the quits. Yes, it’s the city of that is woven into the very fibre of my being, but we are on the quits. Batman glowered at me one too many times, and a tiny incy seed of doubt crept into my soul (‘Is stealing … _bad_?’ *shudder*). Also … there was the little factor of _I accidentally faked my own death in front of the entire Justice League._ It felt like a fresh start – the community of capes and sticks-up-their-butts thought that I, Catwoman, was dead. Ergo, I can do what the hell I want.

(Selina Kyle enter stage left, sil’vous plait.)

It turns out that I’m using my freedom to … develop a passion for knitting.

Oh yes.

_Meow._

(I’ve fallen so damn far; I’m ashamed of myself.)

Gotham and I are _temporarily_ on the quits. But I’ve suddenly acquired a small demon child, which is a nice distraction from my little crisis.

“Moder will come for me,” insists the demon, holding his bowl out. His hands are so small it makes the bowl look humongous. Huh. Maybe he found a bottle that said ‘Drink Me’ and now has shrunk.

I look at him a little suspiciously while I give him another helping of ice cream.

“Of course, she will, kid,” I say.

“Of course,” the demon mutters as the ice cream disappears with alarming speed. “This food is good. Will it improve my fighting speed?”

Ah yes. Everything I do for him – ‘Will dis enhance my logic?’ ‘Will dis aid my combat abilities?’ ‘Will dis help my powers of deduction?’

Sure, kid.

Sure, it will.

It will improve your childhood, you little monster.

It’s been three weeks now, and Talia hasn’t appeared.

I’m disappointed, there is nothing I’d like more than to sink my claws into her. Nothing.


	4. ZATANNA IS EVIL AND HERE’S WHY - or how Selina Kyle accidentally saved a large portion of humanity. maybe.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I faked my death. Accidentally. The circumstances are murky - and by 'murky' I mean that I may have hallucinated the majority of it. It would explain the presence of the giant bong though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay. so. mild drug mentions throughout the chapter.
> 
> ... I'm sorry. You have been warned.

I faked my death. Accidentally. The circumstances are murky - and by 'murky' I mean that _I may have hallucinated the majority of it._ It would explain the presence of the giant bong though.

It happened because I managed to get roped into joining the Justice League of America. Crazy days, huh? I’m going to blot it all over and file it in my _I will always deny it happened_ file. GENIUS ideas, but what can I say? I was experimenting. Trying to see how the hero cape fitted me.

(Terribly, if you’re interested.)

What I ended up with was … a bad situation, to say the least. Now a bad situation happens every week nowadays. The world was threatened, billions of people would die, including your grandmother’s favourite cousin’s nephew (good riddance) and blah blah blah.

It happens all the time. Nothing new about it.

But do you know what _was_ new?

This time … yes, this time there was no way out.

Also, I don’t remember everything.

The villain – Evil Mc’Doofass (I refuse to say his name. It’s terrible and unoriginal and the very fact that he _got_ to the position that he did says something about our ‘heroes’) (It says they’re incompetent bags of hot air) – had everyone nicely cornered.

How? I can hear you demanding. How were the world’s mightiest heroes cornered? HOW? THEY ARE SO GOSH DARN GOOD AND BRILLIANT AND ALMIGHTY?

Weed.

I am not lying.

Really. _Weed._

Or at least, that’s what my memories show me. There is the wee problem of some of my memories having been replaced and/or tampered with. But I’m not going to be upset over that.

(I am lying.)

(I am furious.)

So. Here we were (the JLA and the JL walked into a ‘super’villain’s lair … sounds like the beginning of a joke, huh?) in this aircraft hanger. In the centre, there was a huge glass tube. Clearly built as a giant, indestructible bong.

( … yes, words fail me.)

Inside that was a bomb. A huge bomb. The sort of ‘this will most certainly wipe out a great portion of humanity via the chemicals it will release’ bomb that come so _easily_ on the black market nowadays.

Also in the bong?

Me.

With the bomb.

It’s terribly convoluted – but the long and short of it was that no one could get in and get out and survive.

I’m lying. It’s not convoluted. Or at least, my _memories_ say it’s not. The idiot villain guffawed and said ‘HaHA no one can leave the bong _alive_.’ Everyone believed him. Because everyone is _very_ intelligent.

Superman was suffering the aftereffects of kryptonite dust inhalation (honestly, everything is getting _very_ tired at this point. No one is trying anything new. It’s all the same old same old) Wonder Woman was tied up (… I’m just going to leave that there. Getting tied up was a weakness? The Greeks were into some kinky stuff, huh?). J’ohn J’onz had been burned. Flash was stuck in some sort of super glue puddle (heaven help us all. The world’s heroes - ladies and gentlemen, laid waste by super glue, a bit of light bondage and dust) … should I go on?

Everyone was stuck, unconscious, and a few unfortunates were in an alarming state of undress.

_(Weed. All because of weed. The mind boggles. Say no to drugs, kids.)_

(Have you ever wanted to see the upright citizens of the world high? No? Well, I have had the unfortunate pleasure. It’s not as a fun as you might think.)

Also, just to add a nice little touch of anticipation to the air – the bomb was about to go off.

I have many, many thoughts on the foolishness of villains who _put a bomb on a timer because they didn’t believe that they could possibly apprehend a nice little band of heroes._ Self-doubt. Clearly. We were about to die hideously because a pothead villain didn’t realise that his designs were great enough to actually stop a group of metas and aliens and very. angry. humans dressed in capes.

(And no, he had yet to get Batman. Batman was fighting him still. Hence the bomb. He was scared of Batman and _so he was going to blow us all up_. EVEN THOUGH BATMAN WAS VERY CLOSE TO BLEEDING OUT.)

Sweet mother of-

Fortunately for me - or rather, _unfortunately,_ as the case may be - I was there as a sort of last-minute thing. I hadn’t planned on being there. In fact, I was in the middle of a nice catnap when my communicator buzzed. And when I was stupid enough to _answer_ it, I was teleported to the JLA HQ.

I was informed that the Justice League were in _dire straits._

You know that phrase … curiosity killed the cat?

There’s a reason for it.

I managed to get into the facility. I remember _that_.

And then … Zatanna sensed me. She was bound up. And instead of oh I don’t know _using her magic to free herself_ … she took an extremely creative route.

(We hate Zatanna, by the way. We loathe her guts and we hope her magic turns on her and transforms her into a turnip. We hope her worst enemy eats her. We hope that she is aware for the entire experience.) and Zatanna being there meant that she tampered with my mind.

(Because, of course she did. Heroes are so morally _white,_ aren’t they? No grey to them, is there, Handsome?)

Zatanna controlled me.

I helped Batman a little. Distracted The Stoner ( _not_ his villain name but … appropriate). And then I take the bomb.

I remember Zatanna using me to cry: ‘I CANNOT POSSIBLY DISARM THIS. I WILL DO THE ONLY THING THAT CAN BE DONE.’

I will always especially hate her for making me say that.

It would have been gratifying if Batman had said ‘ _No!!! Don’t DO THIS!!’_ but the poor man was bleeding out and just been attacked by killer drones. (Typical Tuesday for the Bats, I know.)

My memory fails there and the next thing I can recall, I’m _in the bong. With the bomb._ Ah yes, the poetry of hero-ing.

I have yet to disarm the bomb and it will certainly go off in about _oh, I don’t know fifteen seconds._

I don’t remember doing anything. I think I must have stood there. But what I _do_ recall - with such crystal clarity which means that either it is a correct memory or Zatanna has got a lot better at the whole mind rape issue (… so it’s a correct memory then) - is the look on Bat’s face. He’d fought off the drones. Knocked out the villain. Again, typical Tuesday. Untypical? His face.

(Or rather his chin. It’s the way his mouth is tense. As if he wants to call me out on the rubbish I’m spouting.)

I don’t know what I was saying, but it’s clearly something sickeningly heroic and _not-_ me.

(‘THIS BONG IS THE GREATEST BOMB SHELTER EVER BUILT,’ I hope I didn’t say but have a bad feeling that I might have done. ‘BUILT AND SEALED AGAINST A NUCLEAR WAR. THIS BOMB WILL NOT HURT YOU, MY DEAR DARK KNIGHT. YOU HAVE FINALLY PENETRATED MY COLD DEAD THEIF’S HEART. FAREWELL.)

(Did I mention how much I hate Zatanna’s guts? No? Well I do. I hope the tree that is granting her oxygen dies. And then her.)

The World’s Greatest Detective isn’t stupid enough to actually believe whatever the hell it is I was saying.

Obviously.

We’d known each other too many years for that.

But for some reason I’m standing behind a glass with my hand against it, and he _places his own hand against mine_ with only the glass to separate us.

It’s like we were stuck in a rom-com. Or in Star Trek. Only I have better eyebrows.

I’m pretty sure that Zatanna was high in this moment. High, and controlling my mind. What a _purr-fect_ mixture.

Batman was looking at me and his mouth is doing that tense thing _but worse_. (Worry? Pity?). He mouths something to me.

I’ve no idea _what_. I’ve thought and thought and _thought_ about it but … I still come up with zilch. Nothing. Nada.

The clock was ticking. The bomb had a _literal_ countdown.

(I CANNOT STRESS WHAT AN IDIOT THIS SO-CALLED VILLAIN WAS.)

This was the first time I’d properly been face to face with Batman since Gotham. Since I’d stopped playing our endless, eternal game. (It turns out I’m a pro at avoiding Batman.)

I was going to die. I knew that. I couldn’t control _me_. I was barely aware of anything but I knew I was going to die.

I remember distantly wising I could say something. But alas, what I _was_ saying was so awful that I wish I hadn’t opened my mouth at all.

And then the bomb goes off. Contained and safe.

And I’m in Mumbai, awake and aware.

I have working theories – that Zatanna lost consciousness and I pressed the teleporter just as the bomb went off. Or perhaps Zatanna _didn’t_ lose consciousness and transported me.

Does it make up for what she did? No. No, it does not.

It’s rather insulting that:

  * She doubted I could free the League on my own.
  * That she thought I was in capable of throwing a bomb into a bong and closing the door. Because the bong had a door.
  * That she thought I should redeem myself. And made me say things to Batman so he thought that …



Or perhaps it was all a fever dream. I've done me best to research the so-called villain and I can't find too much on him. If Zatanna changed my memories so that I thought there was a _giant-_

Enough.

I only know three things:

  * Zatanna _did_ something to me on that mission.
  * That everyone thinks I’m _dead_. Seriously. Go read the obituary on the JLA’s press relations website. It’s … words cannot describe my feelings towards it.
  * Batman didn’t attend my ‘funeral’. He’d hardly put the ‘fun’ in funeral _but really_. You’d have _thought …_



One day I’m going to hack into the Batcomputor and read Bat’s report on what actually happened. I’m sure it will be mind-numbingly dry.


	5. Selina Kyle Is The (Temporarily) Settling Kind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I would like some ice cweam, oderwise I will slit your throat.”

**I’ve learned so much since rescuing the demon child:**

  1. that I should never give into my impulses and rescue children in need. It’s difficult and irritating and I prefer my life to be free of encumbrance.
  2. that I should always give into my impulses and rescue children in need. To do otherwise would have made me a monster. And I’m not one. I’m a thief. (I stole a child, didn’t I? Still got it.) (That’s the stupidest brag I’ve ever heard. And I’ve heard the Penguin brag. And Harley. So ... that’s saying something about me, then.)



I’ve packed us up and toted the demon off to mountains just above Naples. There’s a small town nestled there and it’s perfect for us.

Perfect in that no one knows us and it gives the child a chance to heal. He’s told me his name - Damian. He still hates me, but I think he is growing to realise that I will not hit him or demand that he does fourteen thousand exercises every morning.

He still flinches though. Still looks ashamed after each flinch.

(Seriously. The people who raised him? Bastards. They are all bastards and I hope they rot in hell.)

The knitting is going as smoothly as possible. I have knitted thirteen scarves for Damian. He has hated each one of them. (So have I. But I’ll never tell him that.)

We’re sitting in our apartment. The windows are flung wide open. Above the buildings across from us, you can see the mountains towering over them. Damian is at the sturdy wooden table. A thousand-piece jigsaw is spread out in front of him and his brow is furrowed as he holds a piece in one hand and frowns at the puzzle in front of him.

I’m sitting on the windowsill, basking in the sunshine. I’m trying to knit a hat for Damian with little success. Either it’s far too big or I drop too many stitches and it is full of holes. The wool is top notch though, and feels luxurious against my fingers. 

There’s a poke on my leg and I look down.

Damian is standing there, glaring up at me.

“Do you know who I am?” he demands.

“You might have mentioned it.” So. Many. Times.

“I am de Gwandson of Wa’s Al Ghul, and de son of de Greatest Detective in de World.”

Oh. Yes. That.

Did I mention that _the demon child is Bat’s son?_

It’s the kind of thing a girl nearly has a brain aneurysm hearing. Talia and Bats? AND BAT’S HAS THE GALL TO JUDGE **ME??** ~~It took me a solid week to get over it.~~ I’m still not over it. The hypocrisy is enough to induce vomit.

“Yes. I know. You are a great and mighty prince who will surely conquer the world and do honour to his father’s and grandfather’s name.”

He nods his little head regally. “I am. I would like some ice cweam, oderwise I will slit your throat.”

“Aw, kid. You’re so adorable when you get all murder-y.” I swing my leg and smile down at him. “What do you say?”

There’s a solid minute of a stare down.

He glares.

I smile.

He gives in.

It takes a full minute, but he does. In the end.

“Pwease.” It’s short and grumpy and for a second there I hear a deeper voice in a different place, a different world. My heart - that stubborn, stupid organ - gives a little throb of ache. I grimace and jump down beside Damian.

“Of course.”

Some days the ache for Gotham - for what she meant to me - is so real that it as if it has wrapped itself around my ribs and squeezed, squeezed and squeezed some more.

I get the demon child his ice cream.

Demon child. Son of Talia and Batman.

Damn. Sometimes I loathe my life.

Why haven’t I told Batman that I kidnapped his son and am trying to raise him while I figure out what to do? (I’ve already figured out what to do - dump him in an orphanage. Only I haven’t found any that I could leave him in. What if they hurt him? You just don’t know that kind of thing. Orphans don’t leave any reviews and reports can be forged. Damn it.)

Here’s a simpler answer: Batman is not responsible around children.


	6. INTERLUDE OF BAT MEMORIES (II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's set the scene:
> 
> Me, looking strong, capable and damn gorgeous in my new all-black costume.
> 
> Batman, looking appropriately menacing.
> 
> An emptied vault.
> 
> A Gotham skyline.
> 
> Me, a righteous do-gooder on a crusade against injustice.
> 
> Batman, determined to confuse 'a good cause' for 'stealing'

I will never forget the first time I saw a Robin. I was in the middle of a perfectly pleasant heist (the security features were a little challenging, but not enough to cause … alarm. Oh, kill me now. _A pun_? How the mighty have fallen) when I heard the harsh voice of Batman behind me.

“Catwoman, set the statue down.”

I know, I know - cliché. And yet if he'd said anything else, I would have been disappointed.

I didn’t set the statue down. I cradled it in my arms and turned, my smile slipping onto my face, lips curving. I positioned my body _just so_ so that when he-

He had a kid with him.

My first outraged thought was _how dare he bring someone along to spoil our fun?_ Batman showing up was something I had counted on. It added a delicious thrill to an already liberating evening.

But he brought a _kid_ with him? I felt insulted.

Outraged.

Puzzled.

“Who’s the sidekick?” I questioned.

“Robin, you ... you Princess of Plunder!”

I stared at this ‘Robin’. I believe my mouth had fallen open. I think Batman’s mouth twitched a little.

“How old are you?” I demanded.

“Old enough,” said Robin.

“This,” I informed the Bat, jabbing a finger in his direction “-is child abuse.”

The fight wasn’t nearly as satisfying as it usually was. I was pursued across the rooftops. The moon was shining. It could have been incredibly seductive _except there was a kid with his underwear over his pants._

For the next five encounters, I protested Robin’s presence loudly. Batman ignored each one – or at least, I thought he did.

But seriously - how old was Robin? and there is no way a child - or at the very least, a pre-teen should be facing the Joker or the Riddler or any other villain.

Except for the Condiment King or the Calendar Man. Then the fight would be very equal.

Eventually, I gave up.

No.

I’m lying.

I didn’t give up.

Instead, I embarked on a campaign of thievery; making sure to leave pamphlets on ‘Raising Your Child When You Haven’t Got A Clue' or ‘Child Rearing For Dummies’ while I did my level best to steal expensive items at random.

(Popular culture memorabilia. Two rooks from the world’s most expensive chess set. A giraffe statue that was _ridiculously_ expensive and _also made from giraffe hide –_ I gave it a good burial. I had standards.)

He couldn't guess my next move then. He and his _sidekick_ would spend most of their evenings attempting to stop my heists (and of course, failing miserably) and wouldn't have _time_ to go near danger.

...

Why, _yes,_ it was a shockingly stupid scheme.

But what can I say? I was a philanthropist.

It lasted two weeks.

Robin wasn’t out the night it came to a head. (His over-underpants, I thought, were probably in the laundry.)

Let's set the scene:

Me, looking strong, capable and damn gorgeous in my new all-black costume.

Batman, looking appropriately menacing.

An emptied vault.

A Gotham skyline.

Me, a righteous do-gooder on a crusade against injustice.

Batman, determined to confuse _'a good cause_ ' with _'stealing'._

“One day,” I called behind my shoulder as I raced across a rooftop. “He is going to get-" grunt as I leapt onto the building below it “-seriously hurt. And you will feel _very_ guilty.”

I’d had to roll to break my fall, and I used the rooftop to push myself upwards. I turned. Watched as The Dark Knight approached me. Shadows hid and shifted around him with every stride. He looked huge. Ferocious. Angry. The physical embodiment of upright and uptight righteous rage. You could understand why some people were terrified of _The Batman and His Fists of Justice (!)_

Me?

I felt many things towards the Bat but none of it was terror.

“You _have_ to stop,” I told him. “This kind of life is dangerous for the kid.”

He came to a halt one step away from me. It was a damp night; dangerous conditions because one slip could mean paralysis with a side of death. His kevlar-armoured and bat-emblazoned chest rose and fell steadily. The city lights were dim and cocooned us.

“He could _die,_ Handsome. We _chose_ this kind of life. But he is a _child_.”

“Leave it, Catwoman.”

Oh. Shocker. _He was talking._ Growling out his words.

“Don’t you _get_ it?” I demanded. My gloved hands slashed at the world around us. “This is no place for a kid. Why would you _include_ him in this? There are demons around every corner, _this is Gotham. You_ don’t exactly associate with pony and rainbows.”

“It is his choice.”

I swear my brain exploded behind my goggles. I almost had to check my surroundings to see if there was any blood and gore dripping on the floor because _really._

“Listen to me,” I hissed, genuinely pissed off. “Kids make dumb choices _every freaking day_. It’s down to people – _adults_ – to guide them _better_.” I pointed at him. “ _This is not better._ ”

There was quiet rage in the being in front of me. I could feel it moving quietly in the folds of his cape. It was gathering. Gathering. It would spill over any minute. I readied myself. I’d seen the Batman fight – really, _fight_ – and he was _good,_ damnit. I’d better be ready. Damn, I’d hoped-

And then … the rage eased.

Subsided.

I looked up into those hidden, blank white glowing eyes. And I saw the harsh line of his mouth soften minutely.

“I _am_ guiding him,” he said, as if something was dragging the confession from him. There was history behind those words. A story. Shit. I kind of wanted to know. Sue me, I was curious. Why would _Batman_ let a kid come with him? Batman _protected_ the innocent. It was his schtick.

(Yeah. Made you feel sick, didn’t it? Why was there someone _now_ when there wasn’t anyone back _then_. When it might have made a difference to two little girls who had no one.)

But … I also had a very expensive diamond encrusted false eye pinched from the velvet vault of Mrs Reimann Oswald the Third in my pouch.

I had a buyer who was on a tight schedule.

And a T.V show to catch.

A cat to feed.

This encounter was over.

Time to go.

I sighed. Smiled up at him and let my fingers trace the bat emblem.

“This is _just_ a suggestion,” I said.

“Catwoman-“

“But have you ever thought of this little thing – and believe me, the idea is abhorrent to me but still - I hear that _therapy_ can work wonders-“

“Catwoman. That-“ was that a _sigh_? Was my erratic thievery choices … _getting_ to him? Could he even be ... amused? Surely not. “- _eye_ doesn’t belong to you.”

Oh. So this was how it was going to go, huh?

“Why _handsome_ , do you have x-ray vision now? I didn’t know you could see so clearly through my goggles. Have you been trying to see through _other_ th-HEY!“

He’d let out a grunt before I could finish my _stunningly_ seductive spiel. He’d reached around my waist. Nearly got to the pouch. For a moment we were two people locked in an embrace on a rooftop under a gently drizzling night sky.

Oh yeah; I’m talking _The Notebook_ levels of romance.

And then I tried to knee him and he tried to put me in a headlock.

And our dance began anew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to do consistent updates - I'm thinking Fridays and Tuesdays maybe. Or just Fridays. Let's go with Fridays and then 'surprise I uploaded' Tuesdays.
> 
> And look, I need you to know: this fic is me emptying my brain. Exorcising years of watching Batman:TAS and a thousand other Bat shows and those 'but what IF ...' that rise with every viewing. It's not perfect. Not in the least. I'm probably grossly maligning some people's favourite characters and making others act VERY out of character. Oh well.
> 
> I'm ahead of the story but I'm also writing as I go. I've just realized that Damian should have green eyes (HOWLING AT THIS OVERSIGHT). I might have to go back and change it.
> 
> Thank you for reading; thanks for exploring this particular what if. This is my relaxation right now; thanks for chilling with me. Thanks for the kudos and the comments - I appreciate them all. It makes me think that I'm not *entirely* mad.
> 
> (And yes, for reasons most obscure, my username has changed from SongbirdsTune to deaddennis.)
> 
> Until next time - same Bat time, same Bat channel!


	7. Selina Kyle And Her New Bedtime Rituals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Come on, let’s watch a lion butcher an antelope.”
> 
> “It’s verie intwesting,” the demon intones, plunging his hand into the popcorn and nodding to the screen. “The natural order of things is important to observe.”
> 
> I stare.
> 
> “You are a sick child,” I tell him.

He tries to leave. It’s not the first time. I find him halfway out of the window.

“Kid,” I say, staring at him.

He looks back defiantly.

“If you’re going to do that, at least try _not_ to knock a vase over.”

A ferocious glare.

I hold up the popcorn to appease him.

“Now, do you _really_ want to go outside where it’s dark and cold and windy _or_ would you like to continue to watch _Big Cats And Their Prey?_ ”

He’s so regal – every bone in his regal little body screams dignity, even when it’s halfway out of the window. He thinks it over very seriously. I wait. I’ve grown very good at hiding my impatience.

“Well?”

Okay. Maybe not _very_ good at it.

“Verie well. But I will leave _verie_ soon.”

“Of course, kid,” I say, and plop myself on the sofa.

There’s a stiff little silence.

“Moder will be _worried._ ”

I have to bite my tongue on that one.

Sure she is, kid. Because she _still_ hasn’t come. Though, admittedly, I’ve done a bloody good job at hiding us both. But still – she has the League of Shadows at her disposal and her father is an insane maniac with delusions of grandeur. It can’t be _that_ hard.

We’ve been here in Italy for a month and a half and I’ve knitted so many things. So many. I’ve even taken to knitting clothing for _dolls_. I don’t even _own_ any dolls. And the garments are all _shapeless._

The window shuts. A little body climbs onto the sofa beside me and stares up at me.

I look down at his little face and smile. Offer the popcorn.

“Come on, let’s watch a lion butcher an antelope.”

“It’s verie intwesting,” the demon intones, plunging his hand into the popcorn and nodding to the screen. “The natural order of things is important to observe.”

I stare.

“You are a sick child,” I tell him.

“Tt. Pwease pwess pway.”

\---

We have a weird ritual for bedtime. Or at least, it’s weird for me. Damn. It’s got to be weird for everyone. Damian brushes his teeth, washes his face, and dons his pyjamas. They are covered in cats. ( _Not_ my idea, but I approve all the same.) Then, he marches to his bedroom and climbs into his bed. He lies as still as a fallen streetlamp.

I stand in the doorway.

“You may wead,” he mutters after thirty seconds. (The little bastard _times_ it. I once heard him count under his breath when he thought I couldn’t hear him.)

I take my place by his bed and switch the reading lamp I soon learned we needed (a phone’s torch can only do so much.)

“Gween eggs and ham,” he orders.

But don’t be deceived. He’ll allow _one_ children’s book. (Pandering to me. I know _because he told me_. Bloody hell.) And then, once that has been read (‘verie amusing,’ he’ll say if it’s particularly good. There’s a cold silence if it’s not. Note to self: never read him ‘Spot’ again.) we go onto the meatier stuff.

We’re neck deep in Lord of The Rings right now.

(Damian is rather fond of Gollum. His feelings on Sauron are mixed and Frodo is ‘pathetic’.)

At the end, he tells me his opinions on what we have just read. In great detail. He gets that from his mother, clearly. The kid just keeps going _on and on and on …_

He’ll stop at some point, and I’ll have to force myself to be awake.

There’ll be silence and then I’ll reach out and awkwardly pat his head.

“Good night. Sleep tight.”

He’s always waiting for this bit. Sometimes he rushes ahead of me and says it instead:

“Let the bed bugs devour you!”

The amount of relish he can put in that sentence reminds me of kittens and their claws.

(This began because of the following exchange:

“I watched on T.V,” he says. “That maudlin Pepper Pig show.”

He’s never forgiven me for that.

“You made me,” he continues, because _of course it’s my fault._

I yawn. “However, will you recover.”

“The moder puts her child to bed,” he says and I freeze because yes, we all want to be reminded of Talia. “Moder did not do the same to me. She was verie busy with important things.”

“Yep,” my voice is strained. I want so badly to tell him the _truth_ but I think one day he’ll realise on his own. ( _She’s what rhymes with hitch and stitch and begins with a ‘b’, Damian._ ) Or I’ll crack and tell him. Bets on which happen first?

“In lieu of that,” he continues very stiffly and _where the hell did he get his vocabulary from?_ “You may put me to bed.”

“Uh. Thank you, kid? For that um, _great_ honour.”

“You are welcome.”)

One bedtime story mentioned bedtime prayers. Of course, he insisted praying – for ‘his mother to continue her duties in a correct way and one day for he, Mother and Father to fulfil their destiny. Also Sewina _could_ have been their humble servant but because she wouldn’t let him watch T.V for eight hours straight may she rot in hell. _Nicely._ ’

It made me think of the baby Robin.

The first one.

What were _his_ bedtime prayers like? Did he say them? Or did he dread sleep and the monsters that lurked in dreams.

He goes by a different name now. But once upon a time, he was a kid. Not as small as the little demon, but a child all the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The writer in me wants to keep all these chapters hoarded up until the story is complete and everything can be fine tuned. But alas, that would take years. So here we are instead. Forgive me for the flaws.
> 
> Until next time! Same bat time! same bat channel!


	8. INTERLUDE OF BAT MEMORIES III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I may have nipped back to the corner store to purloin some shaving cream. Yes, I may have used the shaving cream to give him a beard. Yes, I may have taken a selfie with his unconscious body.
> 
> But I was fully intending to drag him to a reasonably safe location. Until, of course, Robin sprung up on the rooftop.
> 
> He looked at me and Bats. My phone. The shaving cream.
> 
> “Well, well,” I said. “This is awkward.”

Batman was ill. You would think that common cold would tremble in his wake, but clearly it didn’t get the memo.

I could hear it in his voice even as he was attempting to apprehend me.

“Bat. Handsome. Caped Crusader – do you have a cold?”

A silence.

“No.”

I dropped down from the beam I had been crouched on. Stood in front of him and narrowed my eyes.

“Blocked nose, huh?”

“Catwoman.”

“Awww, is the big bad bat _ill?”_

“Catwoman. Hand over the purloined goods.”

I laughed in his face. “Purloined? Why Handsome! Your vocabulary is improved.” I swiped at his face, claws at the ready.

He blocked just in time.

“Do you need cold medicine?” I asked him, dancing out of the way of a vicious blow.

He grunted in response and tried to sweep my legs out from under me.

“Come _on,_ Handsome. It’s _January._ Cold. What’s a man like you with a cold like that doing in a place like this?”

Not my finest, I’ll admit. But he was particularly persistent in that fight, and I was trying to keep out of his way and not break the priceless statue currently in my pouch.

I used my whip to haul myself out of there and lead him on a merry chase. The fact that we crashed into a corner store was merely a coincidence.

“Whatever will the owner of this shop do?” I asked as the alarm blared. We were in a briefly compromising position. I wanted to get out of it – his cold must have been _bad_ for me able to tell that he had it. “His livelihood is compromised! Premises is trashed!”

Batman leaned over me, exhausted. We were currently in a stalemate position.

“I’ll cover it,” he gritted out.

A truth dawned: he had the flu.

The thought was oddly delightful. Lo! How the mighty have fallen … ill with the flu.

“How much cold medication have you taken?”

He didn’t respond. He probably hadn’t taken any. I slipped out of his hold – did you _really_ think I was stuck? – and commenced the fight again.

The man was clearly waning. But his iron will kept him blocking my attacks. Kept him attacking. But he had begun to weave in and out.

By the time we’d reached the rooftops, I could tell he was nearly spent.

And then he fell face down at my feet.

For the love-

Any other so-called villain in Gotham would have taken this opportunity to do unspeakable, terrible things to the poor deluded do-gooder.

I did not.

Yes, I _may_ have nipped back to the corner store to _purloin_ some shaving cream. Yes, I may have used the shaving cream to give him a beard. Yes, I _may_ have taken a selfie with his unconscious body.

But I was fully intending to drag him to a reasonably safe location. Until, of course, Robin sprung up on the rooftop.

He looked at me and Bats. My phone. The shaving cream.

“Well, _well,_ ” I said. “This is awkward.”

“Get away from him,” said Robin.

He threw a batarang at me. I ducked and crouched over Batman.

“You’ve got the flu too,” I accused. “What the _hell_ are you doing out in Gotham, baby bird?”

I glanced at Batman. Any tiny feelings of compassion that had wheedled their way into my mind were rapidly squished.

“Did _he_ let you out?”

Robin inched closer, wariness in every bit of his body. “No. But, but … his vitals were wrong. I left the- um. I had to check.”

The little boy tensed, as if he was about to spring.

“Look,” I said, tired with the whole thing. It wasn’t _fun_ anymore. “Do you have the Batmobile nearby?”

(Batmobile. I mean _really._ This is a grown man who puts Bat in front of everything – _how can he think that he is saner than any of his villains?!_ )

“I’m not telling you,” the boy tried to growl.

I laughed in his face.

“I’ll help you take him to it. But you have to _promise_ not to let him out until he is better.”

Robin was staring at me strangely.

“Kid!” I said, at the edge of temper. ‘Doing good’ always makes me vaguely nauseous. “He’s not going to do any good out here. It’s _cold_.”

Robin chose that moment to sneeze.

“And you have it too.”

“If you hurt him-“ he began.

“I won’t. There isn’t any _fun_ in it.”

Another strange look.

Together we heaved the great lummox down from the rooftops to his waiting chariot. The glass slid back and revealed the interior.

“Huh,” I mused. “Upgraded.”

“Yeah,” huffed and puffed the kid as he helped me put Batman into the car.

I stood back. Robin hopped in beside him.

Looked at me.

Said with the most bunged up voice: “You’ll have to look after Gotham then. Because we’re off sick.”

I threw the cold medicine I’d pinched from the store at him. “Sure. I’ll bring about world peace too. Also, you’re a brat. Make sure you take some of that. It works for me every time.”

The glass slid back into place.

And I went back home. With the statue.

Batman: 0. Catwoman: 1.

There’s more than one way to win a battle.

And maybe, Harley may have told me what the Joker wanted to do with some fish and dynamite. And maybe I suggested that her hyenas were coming down with hyena plague (‘I saw it once. When I worked in a zoo.’ ‘YOU WORKED IN A ZOO?’ I hadn’t. But I’d watched a lot of documentaries. None of which had hyena plague. Also, I am apparently very bad at naming diseases.) and maybe she persuaded Mister J that they needed to go after a zoologist to cure them. And maybe no fish and/or dynamite appeared on the streets of Gotham that night.

Maybe.

But I’d never tell anyone if that _had_ happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I MISSED A DEADLINE.
> 
> But at least we are in the same week? I guess?
> 
> Until next time same bat time (probably!) same bat channel (definitely!)


	9. Selina Kyle Is Terrible At Knitting (But She's Amazing At Introspection.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I am pwepared to accept your punishment,” he tells me haughtily. “But you should know it is vewie weak.”
> 
> “Wow.” I glare. “That’s it then. No ice-cream.”
> 
> He looks at me coldly. “You are a monster.”

I’m a woman of many talents. Most of them are now apparently wasted.

Okay. Yes. I resent this situation. I hate it. I hate _this._ You’d think being dead would be _fun_. But no. I’ve picked a _hobby_ and I’m _knitting_ and I am looking after a _child_.

Sometimes I want to stab myself in the eye with the knitting needles; Gotham is haunting me and singing a siren song. On those nights, I don’t sleep much. I sit at the window and I stare out at the sky studded with stars (no skyscrapers to make it a breath-taking, human skyline. No caped crusader chasing me. Just mountains with snow caps that glow in the moonlight) and I think so hard my bloody _eyeballs_ ache.

I think about all the things I could have done and all the things I should have done and all the things I would have done if only- and then I stop. Because I’m a simple creature, after all.

I didn’t start out being a thief for the sheer hell of it. But necessity was the mother of invention and the woman who donned a mask and held a whip was not a broken one.

Well. Not _whole_ one but not in _bad_ need of therapy either.

Okay.

Not in _dire_ need of therapy.

(We all have our demons and our sleepless nights, don’t we? What sets us apart is how we deal with them.)

Sure, sue me, I could have gone to a therapist at the beginning and moved and settled down to a perfectly humdrum existence … but I didn’t. There was the lure of the night and the joy of a perfectly executed heist. (Also, Batman.) Why confront your demons when you can pull of the perfect backflip off a sixty-two floor building _and survive with a neat little flick of whip_? Why confront rage when you can channel it?

And then slowly, the nightmares stalk your dreams a little less and the memories recede like winter snow in the face of spring.

But then I was _doing_ things. I was a woman in _motion_.

Now … I am not.

Okay.

I take that back.

I am doing _things_ but none of those things have _anything_ to do with the _night_ (unless I’ve stayed up late because _someone_ is refusing to sleep and hell, there’s an interesting documentary about the fashion industry on so why not? I know. It’s depressing), gymnastics (unless you count the few times I’ve snuck onto the building roof and then had to climb down to bring Damian up because he needs an education and astronomy is as good a place to start as any) or caped a’holes (unless you count watching the news and calculating how long a do-gooder speech is going to last or how much insurance money it’s going to take to restore that street in Metropolis.)

I stare at the spare room. There is basket after basket of wool, piled high.

“I have a problem,” I mutter.

The problem being I’ve only learned a basic stich. And I’ve been doing it hypnotically for _months_ now. Shit. I feel like one of those fairy-tale characters – only, I’m not turning straw into gold. I’m turning expensive wool into terrible _scarves._

Damian is standing behind me, his arms are heaped with the offending garments.

“Tt,” he says.

The little brat is raising his eyebrow at me.

“Do you reckon I can just give her the cheap stuff?”

He’s judging me. I can feel it.

“Last night, Wonder Woman bwought peace to a war-torn country.”

Did he just-

I glare at him.

“Did you just compare me to _Wonder Woman?_ ” I demand.

He doesn’t grin. He stares solemnly.

“You,” I jab my finger at him, “are going to a time out seat.”

He stares at me. I stare back.

“What’s that?” he asks, because he’s curious and can’t resist.

“It’s a seat,” I tell him because really, I’ve no idea either. But I watched it on T.V once when I had some broken ribs from a misjudged handhold and needed to heal. “And naughty children go there.”

He’s interested. “Weally?”

“Yes. Really.”

“And do they wevolt?”

“No. They learn moral lessons.”

He thinks for a moment. “How long do they stay there?”

I think, leaning against the doorway. This is much more interesting than having to pick wool out for our nosy neighbour. “Ten minutes.”

“Ha!” a look of relief flashes in his eyes and his small body seems to relax a little. “That’s _nothing_.”

I try to imagine what _something_ would look like. Remember his beaten body. Shit. The kid is going to need _so_ much therapy.

“Fortunately for you we don’t have stairs.”

“I am pwepared to accept your punishment,” he tells me haughtily. “But you should know it is vewie _weak_.”

“Wow,” I glare. “That’s it then. No ice-cream.”

He looks at me coldly. “You are a monster.”

I smile and take the scarves out of his arms, sling them into a different basket.

“Sure I am, brat. Now come and help me find a ball of wool that hasn’t taken me weeks of dark internet bidding to hunt down.”

“I shall never forgive you,” he intones as he strides into the room. “What about the mewino blue?”

“Oh _hell_ no!”

It’s not so bad, you know. This fresh start. For years and years, I’ve existed on a knife edge. Living from one night to the next. Hell, I miss that. The freedom zinging through my veins was more intoxicating than any drug. I was the Cat that Gotham couldn’t put down. The Cat who answered to no one and had no master.

But this little kid with his black hair, green eyes, and sun-kissed skin – well, damn it. He’s as cute as an angry kitten. And when I look at him, the itch to buy a plane ticket and find some idiot’s vault and _prove something_ dies down.

Damn, Handsome. Sometimes, I don’t hate your guts for what you created with _Talia_. Sometimes, I feel _bad_ for you. And swear to anything and everything, I feel guilty that you can’t see him too.

I’m not going to _do_ anything about it though.

No.

I’m not a white knight or a do-gooder.

I’ll leave that to you.

I’m literally dead to you. But I’ve been like that for a few years, haven’t I? Always a disappointment. Never living up to the impossibly high standards you hold yourself to.

Hell. Even the little birds couldn’t live up to it. All the little birds and all their big hurts and how they looked up to you and how, how you weren’t always what they needed. Couldn’t be. Hell. Sometimes _you_ weren’t enough for yourself.

If you’d only _seen_. The world isn’t etched in black and white. Good and bad overlap. Good people do bad things and bad people do good things and the world is a complex place - why didn’t you _get that_?

But no. You insist that you have it right. That I have it wrong.

And because of that … because of _that_ , Handsome …

Damn.

I’m getting maudlin.

But, however hard I try, I can’t extinguish that part of me that wishes things were different.

It could have been, once.

A long time ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is there a plot? I hear you say. Well. Yes. But also ... it's like a river. Winding. Scenic. That's my plot. Just enjoying the journey. There could be some rapids ahead, who knows?
> 
> Until next time - same bat time (PROBABLY) same bat channel (HERE. IT'S THIS ONE.)


	10. INTERLUDE OF BAT MEMORIES IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once or twice a month, he’d leave a note with some appalling message: Crime doesn’t pay! (But if it does, please restock the cake cupboard.)

It was a typical Gotham night. High crime, higher buildings and – if the Joker had it his way – citizens high on laughing gas. And then there was me, feeling as low as I’ve ever felt.

It had been a tough week.

My sister.

Yeah.

Enough said.

Needless to say, I’d donned my costume and was trying to erase everything by as much activity as possible. When your body is a its peak and youth is singing in your blood and adrenaline is rushing in your heart, well, you can’t think about much else.

Okay. Bloody hell, I’ll admit it. I was a _little_ reckless.

So reckless that I acquired a little shadow.

That I didn’t notice.

Until it barrelled into my back and knocked me on the ground,

“Ow,” I said feelingly into the dust and dirt of an apartment block roof.

“Catwoman!” demanded a voice that hadn’t met with puberty yet, “hand over the goods.”

I flipped over – it took more effort than I thought, which was _slightly_ impressive - and held the kid down.

“Right,” I said. “One, how _rude_ of you. Two, _what_ goods? and three, _how dare you interrupt my evening.”_

Robin glared at me. I glared down at him, right into his domino mask.

And then everything that I’d been running from crashed onto my shoulders just as I managed to catch my breath. I sat back on my heels and released the kid.

He cautiously got into a sitting position.

“So. What’s got _you_ prowling Gotham alone?” I asked.

“None of your business,” he said.

“Where’s Bats?”

“Dealing with the Joker.”

“Nice of him.”

“Like _I_ care.”

Oh. Like that was it?

I sighed and got up. “Relax,” I tossed over my shoulder. The little bird was going to pounce. “I’m just getting comfortable.”

I sat myself down on the edge of the block and dangled my feet over the ledge.

I waited. Half hoping he’d go away. But I’d heard something in his voice – hurt. As if something was wrong. It made me think of my sister. Damnit. That was the last thing I wanted to think about right then.

After a long moment, there was a rustling and then he slumped down beside me, throwing his legs over the ledge and gripping edge. He stared furiously downwards – towards the pawn shop with its neon signs.

“What’s ruffled your fur the wrong way?” I asked. “Daddy Bats cut off your pocket money?”

“ _Shut up._ ”

Right. For a kid who was usually so full of _sunshine_ and bouncing and eagerness … something was off.

“You know, this isn’t the right life for you,” I told him. “Gotham doesn’t create normal kids. But hell, baby bird, there are better ways to have a childhood than _this_.”

“I _chose_ this,” he says and I can hear the gritted teeth. “I can do what I want.”

He’s defiant.

“You’re a _kid_ ,” I told him, swinging my legs over the edge, trying to feel a little bit lighter. “Chose _better_.”

“I’m doing _good_ ,” he said. “Making sure that bad guys are put away. Making sure other kids have more _normal childhoods._ Make sure they _can_.”

Aw, damn it.

It would have been awkward if I’d reached out and put a hand on his shoulder – right?

I did it anyway. Kid looked like he needed comfort.

“That’s one hell of a weight to try and shoulder.”

“It’s what has to be done.”

Shit. Who _does_ this?

He was a child soldier in a war that he shouldn’t have had any part of. Damn it, Batman. I thought you knew _better._

“Look, Robin. I’m not your good guy. Clearly. And-“ shit. How to put this. “But I have a place on 22nd-“

“Are you inviting me to your evil lair?”

I glared at him. “Hey! I’m trying to be a good person.”

“Said the thief. Oxymoron there, _Catwoman._ ”

I rolled my shoulders. “Am I supposed to be offended? It’s not my _place_ place; don’t go there expecting a vault with all my _purloined goods_. But it’s a spot you can hang out in. Comfortable. Stocked fridge. Safe space.”

“You’re inviting me to your _safe space._ Geez, this is _worse_.”

It was hard to be annoyed with him when all I felt was pity – no one escaped their childhood without scars. It’s a brutal time. But this kid? Damn.

“Take it or leave it,” I told him, readying my muscles. Calculating where I would launch my whip. How far I needed to leap. Time to move on. “But if you ever need a place away from this … the code is 0491. Keep your shoes off the couch.”

I stood up. On the very edge. Forced a sharp smile against the night. Glanced down. He was looking up at me and the neon lights of the shops below cast eerie shadows on his boyish face.

“He didn’t want me out here,” he tells me at last. “I had a close shave. _He_ has close shaves all the time.”

“Screw him,” I said, because the last encounter I’d had with Bats had left me with a bruised rib and a wrathful mind.

“Yeah,” he said.

“But he’s also right. You shouldn’t be. Sometimes luck runs out. No place for you. Stay in school.”

Oh yeah. I was _brilliant_ at moral sentiments.

I leapt off the building. He didn’t follow me.

But once or twice a month, the couch would look rumpled and my fridge would be raided. Once or twice a month, he’d leave a note with some appalling message: _Crime doesn’t pay! (But if it does, please restock the cake cupboard.)_

I left books on therapy and overcoming trauma in your childhood out in obvious display on the rough-beaten up coffee table. Also _Calvin & Hobbes _because hell, he needed a childhood – didn’t he?

He left me autobiography on a reformed criminal. (Batman’s influence, no doubt.) I read it. Complete crap. The man gave it all up because he wasn’t a good criminal. He got caught.

I was good. I didn't.

Lesson _not_ learned, little brat; but good effort all the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS ON TIME! THIS IS NOT A DRILL!
> 
> By the by - thank you for reading. Your kudos, comments, bookmarks and subscribes ... guys, it makes me happy to know that other people are reading this. Thank you. I'm a little daunted too, because I'm writing further ahead in the story and I'm coming up to some fairly dramatic stuff. I have *no* idea if I'll be able to carry it off but my gosh, I'm going to try.
> 
> Until next time - Same bat time! Same bat channel!
> 
> NEXT TIME:
> 
> Little Damian standing in the doorway, shadows behind him. Shadows in his eyes too.
> 
> “Another terrible scarf?” he questions.
> 
> “No,” I hold it up. “A sweater.”
> 
> There’s a long silence.
> 
> “This is the part where you insult my creation,” I explain gently.


	11. Selina Kyle, (Is Not A) Therapist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Want me to sing to you?” I offer, because I can’t resist. “I feel like that would be very soothing.” 
> 
> “When you sing, birds drop out of the sky.” 
> 
> “Hey!” 
> 
> “Tt. I state facts, Kyle.” 

It’s late at night. Everything is still and quiet. It’s just me and some wool that I spent _a literal_ fortune on. The needles click, click, click away and my brain is comfortably quiet. Tranquil. 

I’m not _worrying_ about anything. Not thinking about … anything really. Anything that truly matters. 

I’m settled. I’m focused. 

One stitch at a time. 

(By now, you’d assume that I am a Mistress of the Knitting Needle. You would be grossly misled. My repertoire is poor and my handiwork, worse. I knit badly and often and to me, that doesn’t seem like a _bad_ thing. I judge my work and my work … well, hell, it calms me. It narrows my focus down to _this_ moment and _this_ stitch and all the regret I swear I don’t have, and all the fears I swear I don’t feel fades away.) 

The radiators are on, attempting to keep the cold at bay. Outside, the winter is in full force. It’s snowing. White ghosts flicker in the light from the window, falling and falling. It leaves you breathless – the way it comes down and down and never ceases. 

In Gotham, the snow turns to sludge three seconds after hitting the ground and usual rooftop haunts turn into death traps. (A winter jaunt is as exhilarating as it is deadly.) 

Here, with everything an enclosed world of white and hush? Hell, this could almost be a postcard picture. I should send one to Batman: 

_Handsome,_

_I’m alive. You didn’t attend my funeral. Neither did any of the Robins. I am not angry. I am disappointed. It’s beautiful here. I’ve ended up_ _looking after_ _your son. Don’t ask. You should though._

_Damn you._

_Selina._

There’s a small side lamp on, casting a glow in the room. I look up because I didn’t hear him come in but damn, I knew he was there. 

Little Damian standing in the doorway, shadows behind him. Shadows in his eyes too. 

“Another terrible scarf?” he questions. 

“No,” I hold it up. “A sweater.” 

There’s a long silence. 

“This is the part where you insult my creation,” I explain gently. 

Still nothing. 

“You know what,” I tell him, straitening in my chair. “I think it will have _more_ holes if someone doesn’t hold the ball of wool for me. It, er, keeps running away. Very distracting. I keep dropping stitches.” 

We both ignore the fact that the wool is kept tidily away in its basket. 

“I will help you,” he says. And he walks very quickly away from the door. As if something is behind him but he doesn’t want to acknowledge it. 

He crouches on the floor by my seat, leaning his head against the arm. 

I hand him the ball of wool. 

“Shall I tell you something?” 

“No.” 

I ignore it and let my knitting needles start clicking again. This is the first time he’s come to me with one of his nightmares. Usually, I hover outside his door. Usually, on the bad days, he suffers quietly or refuses to go to bed at all. (Persuasion never works; he stays up until he falls asleep. He’s heavy when I carry him to his bed. There's no bedtime rituals on those nights. Just silence. Silence as I stare down at a sleeping little boy who has never really been allowed to be a little boy at all.) 

“Well, I’m going to tell you about it anyway. And listen up because I’m only going to tell it once.” 

“Consider telling it _never_.” 

“It’s about your dad,” I tempt him. 

“Father?” He is instantly alert. 

“He has a big chip on his shoulders,” I inform him. “Wants to the save the world. Has a strange habit of dressing up as a bat.” 

“I _know,”_ comes a dignified voice. 

“Hmm.” 

“He is also the World’s Greatest Detective,” the little brat adds, like a tour guide would an important fact in a musem: _This artefact was discovered in 1941._

“Uh. Yes, I guess he thinks he is.” Far be it from me to disillusion the kid. 

“Tell me all you know.” 

“He’s brave,” I say, staring at the wool and feeling the stitches beneath my fingers. 

“Of course.” 

“But even _very_ brave men – like your father – need to withdraw for a little bit. You know, recharge. Check out when the world gets too much.” 

“You are lying and I will stab you with your knitting needle.” 

I crane my neck and look down into his eyes. Raise an eyebrow. Green eyes peer up with black bags beneath them. They hesitate. 

“I will _imagine_ stabbing you with your knitting needle. There is a gweat deal of blood.” 

See? We are making _progress_ here. 

“Charming, brat. Now listen. The world got too much for him _many, many_ times.” 

So many times. And I wasn’t there for half of it. 

So much hurt and heartache that I didn’t _know_ then – that I could barely glimpse at. That I try to avoid thinking about now. _Jason. Tim._ _Barbara. Dick. Alfred._

Names that I know, but shouldn’t. A world – the other side of the villain coin – that should have stayed hidden. 

(Who would have guessed it was harder to fight someone when you knew how they took their coffee or what their favourite comics were?) 

“You may tell me,” Damian concedes. “Though I doubt you are telling the truth.” 

“Thanks. He kept going.” 

“Naturally. Did he cwush his enemies?” 

“Yes.” 

“Good.” 

“But sometimes he needed a quiet place. To rest.” And a place to brood, let’s not forgot that. 

But sometimes when he … well, I’m guessing but it’s an educated guess. The man always did keep me on my toes. It could have been one giant play to turn me to the Light Side. _Let's show Selina my soft side and maybe she'll swoon and give up everything that makes her, her._

Pfft. Puh-lease. Like hell. 

“I see what you are doing.” 

I continue to knit. This colour is the colour of puke. _Sky_ puke. Why hadn’t I noticed that before? 

“You are trying to say that _this_ is my quiet place to be when I need to ... w _ech_ _\- rec_ harge. I do not need to do so. I am a soldier. I will be a unfeeling machine.” 

“Shit, kid,” I say. “ _That_ sounds like a nice future. Did they teach you that?” 

“It was implied,” says the boy, frowning at the wool in his hands. “I have been thinking about it.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yes. I do not wish to talk about it.” 

“You, um, no problem.” 

“This place _is_ quiet,” he concedes, at last. 

“True" 

He steals a glance at me. 

“With you, it is quiet.” 

“Hell. Are you calling me _boring?_ ” 

I am ignored. 

Another silence. 

My knitting needles click and I start on another row. 

And then: “I’ll allow it.” 

“Glad to hear it.” 

We sit in comfortable silence. He holds the wool between his hands. 

“Want me to sing to you?” I offer, because I can’t resist. “I feel like that would be very _soothing.”_

“When you sing, birds drop out of the sky.” 

“Hey!” 

“Tt. I state facts, Kyle.” 

Calling me by my surname and working on his pronunciation of ‘r’s are new things. I’m not sure how I feel about watching him _grow_ and _change_ right in front of my eyes. It’s a tremulous thing. Fragile. I mustn’t notice it too hard otherwise it might shatter. 

“Sure you do. Though I feel like the definition of _fact_ is-” 

“This _place_ . Was it not supposed to be _quiet?_ _”_

“Wow.” 

“That’s what I thought.” 

I let him have the last word. Generous of me, I know. 

Time ticks by. I make us hot chocolate. Damian stays by my side as I move around our small kitchen, grating chocolate and melting it. Putting a healthy dose of cream on top. The two mugs look like snowtopped mountains when I've finished.

We sip them quietly in the kitchen, leaning against the counters, our hands cupping the mugs, as though we could catch the peace that surrounds us and keep it to ourselves. 

Later, I bring the bedding into the lounge. It’s a tiled floor and will be cold so I heap it with blankets and pillows. 

A pile for Damian and a pile for me. 

“I can sleep on a hard floor,” he says, frowning down at the bedding. He looks personally offended. 

“Sure you can, kid,” I snort, as I turn out the light and retreat to my bed. I make myself comfortable. “But you’d be cold.” 

“It would make me strong.” 

“Brat, there’s a difference in being tough and being stupid. Lying on a cold, hard floor when you’ve got warm bedding right there? That’s stupid and illogical. Use your resources.”

At least, that’s what Batman would say.

Probably. 

I listen and then there is a rustle of a child climbing into a warm bed. 

Poor kid, I think and not for the first time. What the hell did they _do_ to you? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was due yesterday but I was Stricken With A Cold so it didn't happen - also, alas, this is the only upload for this week as I shall not be near my laptop at the weekend. 
> 
> Thank you for the comments - it's really quite brilliant to hear your opinions re Selina, Batman and the Robins.
> 
> Until next time - same bat time (next week)! same bat channel!


	12. INTERLUDE OF BAT MEMORIES (V)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m going to make herbal tea,” I said. “And I’m going to watch a documentary.” He stood. “OR I might saunter out into the night and have a close look at that purr-fectly delicious Egyptian necklace that’s taking Gotham’s High Fliers by storm.” 
> 
> He sat down again. Which was somewhat insulting – really? Did he think I only committed themed robberies? Was I joke to him? 

I had thought that my place on 22 nd was merely a spot for Robin to crash when the world was a bit too much. I wasn’t expecting to find the  _ Batman  _ of all people bleeding over my couch at 3:30 am in the morning.

I was understandably upset.

“That cost me $2000!” I told him, pausing in the act of slipping through the window.

Glare from the Bat suit.

He was in a good mood. Clearly.

I, on the other hand, was not.

I stalked to the drawer in the kitchenette where I kept the medical supplies.

“What was it, Two-Face tonight? Where’s Robin?”

Batman stayed silent.

I appeared in front of him , brandishing bandages.

“Where?”

He grunted out in absurdly scientific detail exactly where he’d been stabbed. 

“Robin ha s a test in the morning ,” the stubborn idiot finally  offered .

I swear, that was the most normal thing he’d ever said to me. And my mind immediately flew to several different tests a  crimefighter might take - ‘Rousing Speeches for Evil  Villians : How Much is Too Much’, ‘Dramatic Entrances’, or ‘Brooding 101’.

“Math,” he said drily, almost as if he had guessed where my mind had flown.

“I bet he hates it.”

“He’s a bright kid.”

“I’m sure he is. Thought about retiring him yet?”

“ _ Catwoman _ _. _ ” There it was. A warning in his deliciously gravely voice , telling me not to interfere.

He helped me patch his torso up. It was a bit grim but nothing  _ he couldn’t have gone home for. _ (Or to his cave. He obviously had a cave – didn’t he? A lair. Dark. Brooding. Dripping with raindrops of righteousness. His bed was a coffin, probably.  _ A coffin of justice! _ )

My hands stilled as I brought away the bloodied antiseptic wipe I’d used. I glared at him.

Why was he  _ here _ ?

“This is but a flesh wound,” I accused . (It wasn’t my fault. I’d been watching and rewatching  _ The Holy Grail _ .)   


“Monty Python,” he said.

I stared at him. My brain did a double take. Exploded. Splattered all over the couch. 

“ You watch  _ that _ ?” I demanded.

Silence. He was carefully putting his armour back into place.

I tried to picture him watching Monty Python.

My brain couldn't compute.

(Him, sitting on a concrete couch. Staring at a screen. _I fart in your general direction,_ the screen says. _Hn,_ says Batman.)

“Do you  _ laugh _ ?” I asked.

Silence.

This was so very different from our usual dynamic. I wondered what the hell he wanted. I’d sold the (lucrative) results of my last little  foray of cat- burglary . There was no tracing of this apartment back to me. I wasn’t (currently) brewing a grand scheme (though I did have some feelers out there.) Literally,  _ why _ ?

I eyed him suspiciously.

“Do you need a safe space?” 

“No.” 

“Handsome, you aren’t here to read any comics, are you? Because I haven’t restocked since Robin nabbed them all. And  _ I’m  _ the one accused of stealing.”

“He’ll give them back.”

“That was a-, Bat that was a  _ joke _ . You know what  _ those  _ are, right? Damn. Do you need surgery?”

Silence. Again. He was staring at me. His chin did not quiver and yet I felt his interest . The man was curious as a cat.

“For what?” he said at last with a tiny, impatient huff.  


“The stick up your butt. It’s pretty far up, huh? I’m sure  _ someone  _ will help you.”

I couldn’t help myself. I was nervous – hell. This wasn’t a rooftop. I didn’t have any stolen goods he wanted. (Well. There was a thing or two in this apartment but he wouldn’t know they were stolen. Surely?) He wasn’t trying to stop me. I wasn’t trying to distract him.

We were just sitting on my couch. The moonlight spilling on the floor in front of us and a small lamp glowing in the corner.

Was he  _ okay _ ?

He was about to stand. I knew it. And ... hell if I knew why, but I put out my hand and I touched his arm. He stilled.

“I’m going to make herbal tea,” I said. “And I’m going to watch  a  documentary .” He stood. “OR I might saunter out into the night and have a close look at that  _ purr _ - fectly delicious Egyptian necklace that’s taking Gotham’s High Fliers by storm.”

He sat down again. Which was somewhat insulting – really? Did he think I only committed  _ themed  _ robberies? Was I joke to him?

I made him a tea – didn’t ask what he wanted  ( _ Justice,  _ he’d probably say.  _ And two  _ sugars) – and put it on the coffee table. It was awkward, curling up with a blanket in front of the T.V in full costume. Little uncomfortable.

I put on a T.V show – something light-hearted. Hell, he probably needed it. Two-Face had been pretty mad this week. Rampaging through the city. Nearly blowing up the mayor. (Just your normal week in Gotham, ladies and gentlemen!) Some kids had been killed- oh.

We sat there and he sipped his tea and I sipped mine and I thought  about a very soft heart  buried and  beating beneath all that body armour.

And maybe he wanted a safe space too.

Though he’d never admit it. Too emotionally constipated. If I told him the direction in which my thoughts lay, he'd probably be offended. _I do not need a safe space,_ he'd grunt eloquently. _I am making_ Gotham _a safe space. For everyone._   


I didn’t fall asleep, but I pretended to. And then I actually  _ did  _ fall asleep.

And when I opened my eyes to the sun streaming through the window, I realised that the vase I’d _borrowed permenantly_ from the Gotham Museum of Antiquitie was missing. 

And when I read the news - I liked to have a newspaper to read, sue me for being old-fashioned - I spat out my morning tea on my toast.

The vase's owners, the print read, said they were _delighted by_ the thief’s ‘sudden change of heart’ and were thrilled by the return of the very expensive piece of their Grecian collection.

_ Son of a bitch. _

I’d forgotten about the stupid vase.

Damn.

I’d _liked_ it.

And then I grinned. 

Hell, I could just  _ steal  _ it back.

At the risk of sounding cliché: Meow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELL HELLO THERE! We are back. We are up and kicking. We are tired. We are refering to ourselves with the royal 'we'. We ... need help.
> 
> Thank you for reading - drop me a line with what you thought! I write this in my lunch hour or on the commute home. Or at home. Or just ... yeah. It's a nice way to unwind. To just write and not worry about it too much. This is a sandbox and I am enjoying it here, I hope you are too.
> 
> ... until next time, same bat time! same bat channel!
> 
> NEXT TIME:
> 
> “You may go on without me.” 
> 
> “Ha! So you can run over there and strangle the kid that stepped on your foot? Sure!” 
> 
> “You are an imbecile.” 
> 
> “Thank you.” 
> 
> He glares. “That was an insult.”


	13. Selina Kyle, Moralist and Theme Park Devotee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holding a wiggling, enraged assassin child and trying to hold a backpack and navigate a theme park? I’ve done daring things in my time but this feels like the most stupid.

I am not a coward. Okay. There have been a few occasions when I have not lived up to my potential – purely because I believe fiercely in saving my own skin - but on the whole, I am not a coward.

Since my untimely death, I haven’t touched anything remotely to do with Gotham’s dark underbelly. Because I once – very briefly – was in a play and I was told to commit to a part.

May you rot in hell, Mr Litton, you were the crappiest pothead teacher, but your advice was pretty good and has stuck with me.

Here I am. Listening. Committed to the part of being dead.

( There is no one  d eader than dead Selina Kyle. May she always die on in our  hearts. R.I.P. )

However, I have the son of Batman and the grandson of the Demon Head sitting opposite me in an Italian theme park cafe. Don’t even  _ ask _ . I was  _ blackmailed _ with scissors and wool and a scarf I’ve  _ slaved  _ over.

I ha ve n’t heard or seen a thing from the League of Shadows but hell, I  am expecting it.

(Though the fact that they haven't found me is amusing. I wonder how long it would take them to get over the illogic of ‘oh, a costumed villain who is  _ dead  _ has stolen your grandson' ‘Why?’ ‘Uh. She was looking for wool?’ ‘BY THE SEVERITY OF MY EYEBROWS – WHAT THE HELL!’ Ha.)

“ You look  twoubled ,” says Damian , he is  _ smirking _ . “Could it be that  going upside down is unappealing?”

“I like it,” I tell him for the hundredth time. “But you are too short to go on the big rides.”

He pauses in eating his frozen yogurt.  Narrows his eyes at me. Thinks.

(I can  _ hear  _ him thinking.)

“You may go on without me.”

“Ha! So you can run over there and strangle the kid that stepped on your foot? Sure!”

“You are an imbecile.”

“Thank you.”

He glares. “That was an insult.”

I grin at him and lean over, ruffle his hair. This is a recent thing. Started accidentally but he hasn’t tried to punch me in the throat  yet, so I’m doing it .

(I’ve researched touch deprivation in childhood. Fascinating subject. Proper internet  deep dive . Also, some kind of awful.)

He glares again. Seriously, he could make a grown man shit his pants. ‘Could' being the operative word. I am now immune.

“Come on,” I tell him. “Let’s go and ride the teacups.”

If looks could kill, I’d be six foot under. 

Too bad I’m already dead. 

But my thoughts begin to spiral. I try to make sure that Damian has a good time. Try to win a laugh from him. Try to give him an ordinary day of fun that every child enjoys – or should enjoy. But I scour the crowd for suspicious faces. Keep looking for anyone watching us.

I’m on high alert. I’ve grown _soft_ because once upon a time this wouldn’t have bothered me. Once upon a time, I’d be thrilled. But the stakes didn’t feel high then. The cost of failure wasn’t the price of a little boy’s beaten body and brainwashed mind.

I’m pulled from my reverie by  Damian.

We are standing in front of a  whack'a'mole and  he is  frowning furiously.

“This is a  _ scam _ ,” he announces.

The proprietor says something angrily in Italian:  _ the little shit has broken  _ _ the game. _

I look at the game.  There’s sparks and electricity and  _ has he stabbed something with a SPOON? _ _ Where the hell did he get a strong enough spoon?!  _ I’m impressed.

Damian curses him back. In  Italian. 

“Okay. Time to go.  _ S _ _ cusa _ _ , signor. _ ”

I try to tug Damian away but he has decided that justice must be served. (Oh gee, wonder what side of the gene pool he got  _ that  _ from.)

He leaps onto the table that separates us from the man and launches himself at his throat.

Kill me now.

I catch him just before he lands a blow. Hold him in my arms and apologise profusely  as I back away.

Time to go home; I think the teacups can wait.

Holding a wiggling, enraged assassin child  _ and  _ trying to hold a backpack  _ and  _ navigate a theme park? I’ve done daring things in my time but this feels like the most stupid. I drop him to the ground and with a  _ glare _ , he reluctantly takes my hand.

(It’s usual for young children to hold their guardian’s hands, I’ve told him. Personally, I’d rather not – I've never had much to  _ do  _ with kids - but if I’m not holding his hand I’m not sure what the hell he’d do. Where he will go. What if someone  _ took  _ him?)

I’ve got a sick sensation in my belly; this is just a rickety old theme park that is outdated but it’s in  _ public.  _ We've just made a scene.

I’m not scared of the League. Hell no. But they vanish with smoke and mirrors and if they whisked Damian away I would get him back. Of course I would. But what the  _ hell  _ would they do to him in the meantime?

Some of his nightmares … the way he just isn’t  _ normal _ . Hell! I grew up in the  _ slums  _ of Gotham where the  _ garbage  _ of humanity thrived like cockroaches … but this kid? He doesn’t know how to be a kid. 

Or rather, he didn’t. I’m trying to show him the way but hell if I know if it’s working.  _ I  _ didn’t have a normal childhood. Dealing with the little brat is like attempting to do a Rubik’s Cube without know what the hell a Rubik’s Ccube  _ is. _

Damian is quiet beside me. I glance down at him and it strikes me as that he is so self-contained but look past that and he’s just a  _ child _ .

“He insulted me,” the seething little boy says. “It was my _wight_ to punish him.”

“Remember that episode of  _ Inkle  _ _ Dinkle _ _? _ ” I ask , striding through the crowd and heading towards the car park.

“ Tt. There are four hundred and twenty two. Which one ?”

It’s a hideous abomination of a show in pastels documenting the adventures of a cow named Inkle Dinkle hunting for his Sprinkles. I don’t know  _ why _ .

We hate watch it. Or at least, I do.

Damian – for reasons that escape me –  _ enjoys  _ it.

“ The one where Inkle  Dinkle gets hit in the face?”

“A  frequent occurrence; h e is partially blind this season as he stared at the sun too long in order to discover his enemy's motives.”

“Yeah, well, in  _ this  _ episode he gets hit in the face by someone on purpose . Do you know what he does?”

“Kill them with a vicious kick,”  offers the adorable child with a bloodthirsty glint in his eye.

“No. He waits for the perfect moment. When he won’t get the blame. He waits and then, when his plan is  perfect and the Chip is unsuspecting, do you know what he does?”

“Tt. ”

I am in the midst of trying  to deliver a moral lesson  _ and  _ remember where I parked the car .  But I know that I’ve got his interest. Wait for it ... wait for it ...

“What does he do?”

“He bankrupted him,” I respond promptly.

There is a  thoughtful  silence  next to me. I spot the car.  Unlock  it.  Help Damian into his battered car seat.

“I do not  wecall that episode.”

“Sure you do. Oh they make it _seem_ that Inkle Dinkle is forgiving him and _helping_ him in the mudpie business, but you _bet_ Inkle Dinkle will get the Chip to buy up all the stocks, slowly devalue the restaurant _and_ get Chip to pour more and more leaf money into it until one bad review and bad case of salmonella later-" I snap my fingers together “... Chip is bankrupted without a home.”

Damian is staring at me, his concentration complete .  “The other episodes do not mention  this event.”

I close his door. Cross to mine and get in.

Before I start the car, I smile at him.

“Course they wouldn’t.  But they never mention the Ch i p again, do they? Justice is served and it doesn’t  _ need  _ to be mentioned.”

Life lessons with Selina Kyle; you are welcome, Batman. 

We go home, stop off at a corner shop. There’s some crappy box dye that I toss into the shop's wicker shopping basket.

Damian doesn’t ask why or what; he holds my hand and examines the towering shelves and narrow walk ways in-between then. The store is full of dull colour and the sun attempts to stream in through the window, but barely makes it past the posters that are scotch taped to the glass.

The little demon is watchful. For a  thief who grew up perfecting her slight of hand and art of distraction, it’s almost disconcerting.

He is watching, always watching.

Waiting for something.

Waiting  for me to  _ do _ something. For training. For harsh words. Hell if I know. 

So I try to surprise him. I slip a lollipop in my pocket and present it to him when we are back in the car and the store keeper and her beaming smiles directed at the demon are behind us.

He stares at it. Furrows his brow.

Once, he would have left it in my hand. Once, he would have expected  a trap.

Now, he glances at me and says: “Perhaps it is strawberry flavoured.”

“Perhaps it is.”

“Perhaps it tastes like dung.”

“Maybe.”

“Perhaps I should test it for you.”

I grin at him hand him the lollipop. “ Brave.  Perhaps you should test all of it.”

“Tt.” He unwraps the treat . “I will consider it.”

I start the car and its engine spotters. The sun is shining and I ignore the box dye and why I’ve bought it . I concentrate on the road, the mountains and the little boy beside me.

The  very human little boy who  wasn’t allowed to be a child.

He will be now.

I swear it.

And as I whiz round a sharp bend, I think that perhaps he was the one thing that’s been worth stealing in my life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a question - at some point this story will only be updated once a week. You have a choice: Tuesdays or Fridays. Let me know which.
> 
> Thank you for reading/watching/listening/running/kudo-ing/commenting/eating et cetera et cetera
> 
> Until next time ... same bat time! same bat channel!
> 
> NEXT TIME:
> 
> “Mr Wayne,” I said, sinking into an armchair with a grace that had been practiced in the mirror countless times. “I’m here for your money.”


	14. INTERLUDE OF BAT MEMORIES VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If only you were here, Batman. You’d be so shaken you might say ‘hn’.

“I think the party might be in a different room.”

It was a quiet statement and I refused to let my muscles tense. I tossed a careless glance over my shoulder. Bruce Wayne stood in the doorway to his library.

“Thanks,” I purred. “I was horribly lost.”

I turned back to the books.

I was attending this charity gala at Wayne Mansion under extreme duress.

Okay. Let’s be honest – I’d _made_ myself go there. I was trying to be sociable. Like a _normal_ person. Yes, I was aware that I would never be _normal_ (think: cat outfit, relieving certain organisations and people of goods that I wanted et cetera et cetera) but …

Well picture this:

Me, eating granola, stroking the cat that had deigned to grace my lap with her presence. Vivaldi is lilting over the radio.

Brainwave.

In that moment … I felt _normal._

But, for a girl whose life has always been on the fringe of ‘usual living’, well … it was an odd feeling. This must be what Batman wanted me to be like.

Now, I was by nature curious. I’d never had the _patience_ to pull on the clothes of an ordinary life and see how they fitted. Quite frankly, I’d never had the time.

But I’d just finished a highly dangerous job for a certain bald-headed egomaniac from Metropolis, had a _brief_ run in with some sanctimonious idiots clad in Spandex from the Justice League, and I felt pooped. The adrenalin had rushed out of my veins and the exhilaration of the heist had left and I felt _down_ and in a _slump_.

And suddenly, Vivaldi, granola and my cat had given me a window into what an ordinary life might look like.

I decided to exploit it.

I’d paid the rent - someone else’s, not mine. There was a Mrs. Lynskey four apartments down who had early onset dementia and couldn’t always remember to pay. Surely, a _normal_ person would step in and foot the bill? I paid it and felt uncomfortable. Like a bloody halo should be hovering over my head or something.

(Did _ordinary_ people feel this way? _Did_ Batman? Surely not. Superman? Wonder Woman? Yes. Sure. They probably had pet names for their halos. But _Batman_? No. He probably had made it into razor sharp BatHalo and flung it villains for _justice_ \- and what the _hell_ was I thinking about?)

I’d bought cat food – for my pantheon of cats, and for the local shelter.

I’d visited the wild cat enclosure at the zoo.

I’d gone to the movie theatre and left halfway through when Ivy decided to release some lovely, mind-bending pollen into the air two blocks down.

And now I was at a charity gala – the invitation had come months ago and I’d left it on the counter top. Now, I was here and I was _done._ There was a _reason_ I stole. Because the pompous assholes in the next room? Yeah. Nothing quite like stealing from them. It was another thing to associate with them.

I’d just found myself having a perfectly maudlin conversation with Bernard Bradley about _yachts_ whilst I tried to resist the temptation of flinching his wife’s diamond bracelet from around her wrist.

Normal people didn’t steal.

Ha.

_What was I thinking_?

When he mentioned how he was changing yacht clubs (‘the hors d’oeuvres are _divine_ there’), I took great joy in switching his wife’s bracelet with someone else’s watch. All it took was a conversation change, a pleasant passive aggressive exchange with the butler, and some quick sleight of hand.

And then I’d retreated to the library.

Books, at least, didn’t yap on like a Class A idiot.

“What’s caught your attention?” Bruce Wayne asked.

I could have turned on the charm and played with the man (by all accounts, he was also a Class A idiot), but I found I couldn’t. I was too depressed. The cream of Gotham society were all hypocrites, gorging themselves on the misfortune of others. Oh sure, they didn’t _think_ they were – but their ignorance wasn’t bliss for the Gothamites in the East End, was it?

I slipped _To Kill A Mockingbird_ back into its place. Time to walk a mile in a philanthropist’s shoes. (That’s what a normal, upstanding citizen would do, wouldn’t they?) Shit. I wasn’t _meant_ for this. But I could try.

A seed of an idea dropped into my mind, became a seedling, and shot up into a full blown plan-tree.

(Hadn’t Mr. Wayne recently dropped a _mere_ half a million on putting a rooftop garden on a down-trodden and crumbling block of apartments he could _just_ see from his office window? Hadn’t he said, when asked by the press, _‘oh, it gave me ulcers to see it! What an eyesore!’_ )

“Mr Wayne,” I said, sinking into an armchair with a grace that had been practiced in the mirror countless times. “I’m here for your money.”

Something flickered in his blue, blue eyes, but the grin that came to his lips could only be classed as profoundly inane.

“Oh yeah? What’s in it for me, Miss … ?”

“Kyle,” I supplied. “Selina Kyle.”

He approached my chair and delivered a sloppy kiss to the back of my hand.

“The pleasure,” he said, his blue eyes fixed on my face, “is all mine.”

I tried to smile. I probably looked constipated. It would have been so much easier to seduce him. But no. Not now. I was being a good citizen. (This is why you didn’t let granola, Vivaldi and a cat into your life at the same time. It turned you _insane._ )

“Yes, I know,” I told him. “Let’s get back to your money. I want it.”

He sat on the leather couch opposite me. “All of it?” he asked playfully. As if he thought this was a joke.

(Yes, I would like all your money, _billionaire_ Bruce Wayne.)

“How nice of you to offer,” I said. “But no, I would like-“ Shit. How much did I want? “Two hundred thousand dollars.”

He nodded, as if this was entirely normal. “May I ask what _for_? Gosh, purses sure are expensive, aren’t they?”

Did he just … ? I liked a smart purse as much as the next girl but _really._ I tried not to narrow my eyes at him.

“There’s a big cat reservation forty meals from Nairobi, Kenya,” I told him. “It’s about to be closed due to lack of funding.”

“I _hate_ it when that happens,” said Bruce Wayne, who probably never had a lack of funding in his entire life.

“Hmm.” I tapped my red nails on arm of the leather chair. “I’d like you to make a donation.”

“I’d love to,” he said grinning at me. “But I have a condition.”

“Yes?” I raised my eyebrow.

“Go on a date with me.”

“Three hundred thousand dollars,” I said after a moment in which I resisted punching him on his chiselled chin. Where I came from, there was a word for men who paid women to _do_ things for them.

Also, this was truly a Shining Moment in my career. _Catwoman_ was trying to do something _good_. It felt like pulling wisdom teeth. Without anesthesia. 

If only you were here, Batman. You’d be so shaken you might say ‘hn’.

Wayne rubbed his chin. “It’s an opera.”

“Which one? Because let me tell _you,_ Mr. Wayne, if it’s _Die Zauberflote_ I will kill myself first and then you.”

“Oh no,” said the billionaire with a billionaire education. “It’s not Die Sourbyfloots. Wait. Is that the one with the Magic Flute in it? With all the-“ He proceeded to give a brief, but startling rendition of The Queen of the Night’s aria. It sounded like several strangled felines.

I glanced at the door, someone _surely_ should come charging in. _Surely._ The man sounded as if he was being murdered whilst gargling.

He stopped.

Stared expectantly.

I had an uneasy feeling that I was being played.

So I did what I always do when presented with a challenge; I rolled with it.

I applauded.

“Do it again,” I said, and then with a grim smile: “But go higher.”

Bruce Wayne looked straight into my soul and smiled. “You’re on.”

It was worse the second time round. I wasn’t sure _how_ it could have been worse, but it was.

“Four hundred thousand dollars and a donation to Magdalen’s Orphanage,” I said promptly.

“And I also have a gala to attend. On a different night.”

I glared at him.

Did he think he could _buy_ me?

“You should sing the aria again,” I said, goaded. “And I’m sure you could go higher.”

“I think you should join me this time,” he said.

I stared straight into his soul. “It would be my _pleasure_.”

And that was how his butler found us, sitting on a couch and a chair, murdering Mozart’s melody and smiling grimly at each other.

“Master Wayne,” he said when we were both somewhat out of breath and the music lulled. “There’s an emergency at Wayne Enterprises.”

There was a brief moment when we hovered in the in-between; when Wayne held my gaze and I held his and somewhere Mozart stopped rolling in his grave. Then the world intruded, rushing back into the library and sweeping away any sense of surrealness that had gathered about us. Suddenly, we were no longer a man and a woman locked in a very bizarre game with laughter in our eyes.

He was the billionaire host of a charity event and I was woman invited because she’d accidentally donated too much to a too public animal right’s charity.

And also, he was supposed to be a Class A idiot.

“Sure, thanks Alf. Hey – Miss Kyle. I’ll be in touch.”

I stood with him and smiled.

“Make the donation first,” I said.

He held my gaze again. “Right. Er. Your phone number- you should leave it.”

“Thanks. Perhaps I will.”

The butler and Wayne left the room together. “There’s been some dissent amongst the guests, sir,” the butler’s voice drifted over his shoulder. “Apparently a trickster has switched Madam Bradley’s diamond bracelet with a _watch_ of a considerably _lower_ price range.”

I left after that.

And two days afterwards, I read the news that the Wayne Foundation had made an enormous donation to Kenyan Big Cat Animal Sanctuary. Half a million. I was shocked. Awed by what wealth could do. ( _Half_ a million?!)

Impressed with myself.

Delighted for the cats.

When my phone rang two days later from an anonymous number, I knew what to say; I couldn’t be bought and like hell did I want to go to the opera. But for half a million?

My mother didn’t raise a fool. Actually. She didn’t raise me at all but I digress.

_How much more could I get him to give?_

It was purely for philanthropic reasons. Nothing to do with his piercing blue eyes, dark hair and chiselled chin. Handsome men could be found anywhere, but none of them had donated half a million dollars for a date with me.

I was out of my depth, but I was doing the Lord’s work.

Even _Batman_ had to approve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BEHOLD! THE NEXT CHAPTER. A little zany, I grant you. But did I enjoy writing it? Heck yeah!
> 
> Thoughts? Ideas? Opinions? All are welcome! Let me know what you think!
> 
> I swear the chapters are getting longer; the story is twisting and turning right now and I'm trying hard to write myself into a corner. The other day, I finished my lunch break and headed back to my desk and suddenly BUT WHAT IF DAMIAN [something that I can't reveal for spoiler purposes] hit my brain and I had to remind myself that 1) I was a mature adult with a full-time job and 2) my manager would look perfectly BOGGLED if I explained WHY I wanted to go back to tap on my phone.
> 
> UNTIL NEXT TIME ... SAME BAT TIME! SAME BAT CHANNEL!
> 
> Next time:
> 
> “Or pewhaps- perhaps, you are holding me to ransom. Perhaps you will sell me – I am valuable because of my lineage. Perhaps you are training me to do something. Perhaps you aim to turn me against my moder- mother. Tt. I will not.”


	15. Selina Kyle Is Out Of Her Depth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Don’t intewupt. I think your intelligence levels have descended.”
> 
> “Ouch.”
> 
> “Considerably.”

“You will not dye my hair.”

We are in the middle of a battle of the wills and let me tell you, the kid has a strong one. But then, so have I. And I’ve had years to perfect mine.

“Yes, I will.”

“Your reasoning is flawed; this would be a dweadful disguise.”

“You're saying that because you don’t like the colour.”

Damian looks at the box of dye. At the bottle of bleach beside it. And then back to the box; the woman on the front is smiling genially from beneath a head of bright blue hair.

Damian looks at me.

A small black eyebrow flicks up.

“It’s called hiding in plain sight,” I offer.

“Selina,” says the little demon. “I have only doubted your intelligence several times, but I’m afwaid- I’m _afraid-"_

“Good job, brat!”

“Don’t intewupt. I think your intelligence levels have descended.”

“Ouch.”

“Considerably.”

I sigh. Rest my hip against the bathroom sink. Time to pay the piper. Shit. What does that even _mean?_

“Do you know why we have to disguise ourselves?”

Damian crosses his arms. “Because you have a past.”

Inkle Dinkle has revealed that he, too, has a past – selling cup cakes with cheap ingredients at high prices. Right now, he’s seeking forgiveness for the WaterLoomies that he's wronged.

(Seriously. Whoever is writing that show _has_ to be bloody bonkers. And high. Really, a potent mixture of both.)

“No, kid.” I stare at him. “ _You_ do.”

We have never – and I do mean _never_ – discussed his kidnapping in depth. I mean, yes – I probably should have done. We’ve dealt with nightmares. He’s tried to leave a few times, but I’ve always followed. Eventually, he comes back. There was one terrible time – he left for a full day and I followed him to the train station.

He was just sitting there, staring. Watching the trains go past. He came back home with me without a word.

Yeah.

I guess I should have communicated a bit more. Because he is, at the end of the day, a freaking _child_. Half bastard, half demon but all little boy.

“I am not dumb, Selina,” he says with considerable scorn. “ _You_ kidnapped _me._ ”

I can read him now. Not entirely well. But he looks ... damn, he looks like he needs a hug.

I kneel in front of him.

“Damian. _Why_ did I ‘kidnap’ you?”

“I have many theowies. This is a test for me to pass, to prove I am tough enough to turn away from the world's lures.”

What the hell?

“Or pewhaps- _perhaps_ , you are holding me to ransom. Perhaps you will sell me – I _am_ valuable because of my lineage. Perhaps you are training me to _do_ something. Perhaps you aim to turn me against my moder- _mother._ Tt. I will _not.”_

The kid is holding himself so tightly. His chin juts out. His eyes are on fire. This means a lot to him. It’s like he’s verbally throwing up all over the floor in front of me. _How old is he?_ I never figured it out. Never _asked_.

_See universe? I’d make a shit mom._

“You’ve got some theories there, kid.” I clear my throat. “But I’m afraid they are wrong.”

He glares. “You will clone me? I hoped it wasn’t the case, but it is understandable.”

“Eh.” No words. I have no words. My brain is scrambled. He thinks-?! “Kid, you’re insane if you think the world could handle more than _one_ of you.”

He nods as if this was a fact. “Yes. It _did_ seem wather foolish.”

“I found you alone on stone slabs. You were bleeding and had- shit, little brat, you had _so_ many bruises.”

Damian’s face is unchanging. He is still waiting. For what I don’t know.

“To punish is to teach,” he says, and I can tell he is quoting someone. It’s eerie – the way his young voice holds the echo of some unknown monster who _hurt_ him. “Pain brings endurance.”

I’m Selina Kyle. I’m Catwoman. I’ve done _bad_ things in my life. I’m not a good person. I came from the gutter and defied the world itself to survive. Hell. To _thrive._ To laugh in its face. (Dramatic? Yes. True? _Hell yes._ ) My point? I’m not _equipped_ for this.

“You’re a child,” I tell him and my voice feels very quiet. “Listen, I- I didn’t want to _talk_ about this with you because you’re- hell, kid, you’re so _young_.”

He snorts.

“You _are._ I was going to _wait_. I was going to wait and then get a good therapist that you could talk to. Who could explain. _Everything_.”

“Explain.”

“The world’s a shit place. Some people get dealt crappy hands. Some people get good ones. Damian, getting beaten up until your entire body is a mass of bloodied bruising … _that’s a crappy hand._ Okay? Remember stupid Inkle Dinkle? Tell me _one_ episode where you see a kid getting _hit._ One episode where a kid _bleeds_ because someone wants to _teach him something._ ”

I can see the cogs turning in his head. The denial ooze through.

“Tt. None of them have a destiny like mine. None are the sons of the World’s Greatest Detective or the grandson of-“

“-Damian.” I don’t reach out and shake him, but I want to. “ _Listen to me_. I know your father. And let me tell you – he would _hate_ the fact that you were beaten. He would be filled with _rage_ at your treatment. He would-“

“He did not come and put a stop to it.”

I laugh out loud at that. “ _He didn’t know_ , okay? That man – your father – is flawed. And the fact that _I_ can say that is _telling_. He is flawed and he is imperfect but let me tell you – if he _knew_ … if he knew that he had a great little guy like you – and that this little boy who is so _talented_ and so _intelligent_ and speaks freakin’ hell if I know languages and _tries_ to be so _brave all the time_ was _beaten_? Was _hurt_? Damian, I _swear_ by _everything I know_ that hell itself wouldn’t stop him from coming to you.”

His face crumples. I rest my hand on his shoulder.

“You’re _such_ a brat,” I tell him and sue me, I’m _crying_. It’s my _period_ or something. “And you’re a _pain_ in my butt but you’re so _brilliant._ I was looking for some _wool_ and I found this room in some godforsaken place and there was _you_ , hurting. A _child_. I didn’t even know you, but even _I_ knew that it was _wrong._ So _freakin_ wrong.”

I’m sniffling like a baby and suddenly he’s hugging me so fiercely I think a rib might crack.

It’s a price I’m willing to pay.

I pull back and look into his face.

“Damian, Son of Batman. I didn’t kidnap you to ransom you or sell you or clone you or do _anything._ I took you out of there because _how could I leave you behind_?”

There’s a long moment as my words settle on the brown kitchen tiles about us.

“I don’t twust you,” Damian says, stepping away and straightening his spine. “But I am willing to give you a chance.”

My brain stutters. “Eh?”

“I have moder’s number,” he says. “I was forced to memorise it. I have twelve numbers and three locations memorised. I could have gone to any of them.” He nods, as if he is making a decision. “I have failed.”

“You didn’t-“

“Tt. I failed. I could not _make_ myself call the number. I could have done,” he tells me helpfully. “I could have called it thirty-two times.”

“Okay-“

“Perhaps I _am_ weak. Perhaps I _am_ a failure. But-“ He glares at me. As if this was my fault. “-the ice-cweam- _ice cream_ was a powerful motivator.”

“It really wasn’t meant to-“

“And I … approve of Inkle Dinkle and His Most Marvellous Adventures.”

“I mean-“

“And you are not … terrible.”

“Okay, so _that’s_ -“

“And your idea of ‘punishment’ is _pathetic._ ”

“You are _such_ a-“

“So I have decided to let you continue to stay with me. There is no need for hair dye. They will have assumed me dead. They will not look for me. Moder may, but she is always busy and would expect me to end you or myself or perhaps both. I would like to eat dinner. Emotions have … disturbed me.”

“Bloody hell,” I mutter as he retreats from the bathroom. “Bloody. Hell.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY. We're back. Let's not talk about last Friday. It didn't happen. This story didn't happen. Nothing happened.
> 
> In the increasing madness of this world ... let's keep calm and wash our hands. (And maybe self-isolate with a good book, a cup of tea and a blanket. And yeah, swap the book out with fanfiction sometimes too.)
> 
> Until next time ... same bat time! (I jolly well hope so!) Same bat channel (RIGHT. HERE.)!!
> 
> NEXT TIME:
> 
> He switched his phone off. Looked at me. Opened his mouth.
> 
> I shushed him. “Let me guess – a fire! Perhaps an iceberg is melting. Perhaps there’s an emergency board meeting at-“ I checked my none-existent watch “eight pm at night on a weekend. No- don’t apologise! I insist you go.”


	16. INTERLUDE OF BAT MEMORIES VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let’s just say that Bruce thought that an opera was synonymous with a sing-a-long.

I think, for those three very brief months, I was (possibly) the best person on earth. I was well-behaved. I stole nothing. If a ticket to Heaven was handed out based on merit, you can be sure I’d be in the First Class compartment, head-of-the-line, sort of thing.

In short, I was perfection.

No. Let me correct that: _purr-fection._

And I knew it.

Let me break it to you – those three months in which I dated Bruce Wayne were the most miserable in my entire life.

It turns out, there’s a _reason_ why the do-gooders brood; their work is _bloody boring_.

I had an entire spreadsheet typed up before our first date. Stupid me thought that this was a challenge. _How much money can I extort from one of the world’s richest men*?_

_*for charity._

I drew up a list of the most ridiculous charities I could find, as well as more legitimate ones. (A lobby group that pushed for Gotham prison reform, was one. A soup kitchen chain that was badly underfunded and overneeded was also on the list.)

I also drew up several Rules of Engagement. (And by that I mean I drew up three Rules of Engagement because who the hell had room for any more?)

1) I could not steal anything from Bruce Wayne

2) I could not take any of the money he gave.

3) I could break the first rule but _never_ the second and _only_ when the inevitable happened and he proved that he was a world class douchebag.

Thus armed, I went on our first date. Primed and ready to prove to the world that Selina Kyle was a _decent_ person with a shiny _halo_ dammit. I know – what the _hell_ was I _thinking_?

DATE ONE:

It was tough. Any intelligence that Bruce had displayed in our first meeting was lacking.

I will pass over what happened in the opera. Let’s just say that Bruce thought that an opera was synonymous with a sing-a-long. It was quite wonderful; watching the cream of Gotham glare their eyes out and clear their throats at our box.

And then it went downhill.

At dinner afterwards, he made inane remarks to me (‘How many private planes have _you_ crashed? None?! My _gosh_. How _do_ you do it?’), demanded that he washed his hands in champagne (‘to keep them softened but in a _manly_ way’), and magnanimously asked for the left overs to be wrapped in a silk napkin to give ‘to that homeless man. No, _woman_. No. Thing? Dog? Bear?’ on his way out.

There was no way out. Half-way through dessert, he received a phone call. An urgent meeting. (‘It’s my dentist! He says the results have come through and my eyesight _is_ getting better!’) He had to leave.

“Miss Kyle,” he said. “It’s been a _pleasure._ ”

He kissed my hand. It was an awful kiss with more slobber than Killer Croc himself could conjure up.

“Until our next date?” he said, but in his blue eyes there was a hidden gleam; he didn’t _want_ a next date.

Too bad.

I was being a do-gooder.

Challenge accepted. I didn’t know which Bruce he was – the one in our first meeting or this one.

“I can’t wait,” I said. I always have been a good liar. I made certain to take the silk napkin and its food.

I gave it to the homeless woman who was two blocks away, down an alleyway, from the restaurant. Her name was Denise. She was a vegetarian and her ex had been abusive. We shared a half hour conversation while she wolfed down the food.

She called me an angel. I told her she was an idiot and walked her to the nearest women’s shelter and slipped a bribe in with her.

It didn’t occur to me until later that night that for all his stupidity, Bruce Wayne had been very observant when he’d spotted Denise. Too observant.

Or perhaps it was something else he’d seen.

DATE TWO/THREE/FOUR:

He always was called away either half-way through or towards the end of the meal. I wasn’t an idiot. I had it figured out.

I didn’t confront him about it at first. But at some point a girl couldn’t take any more of it. Sue me. I had an ego. Also: not much patience. I hadn’t gone out on the rooftops for a full week and my skin was itching.

“Look,” I said, half-way through a long ramble about his top thirty ski resorts. “I won’t be offended if you’re not interested.”

He stopped describing some godforsaken Austrian slope. Stared at me.

I peered into his blue eyes.

Nothing.

Nada.

“Interested?” he said blankly.

“In me.”

More blankness coming from over the caviar and biscuits. He went to drink from his champagne glass.

“You’re called away from our dates _every_ single time. There was the dentist. And then there was your wounded pygmy pig – by the way, I checked – you don’t _have_ a pygmy pig. And _then_ there was your ward receiving too good of a grade. And then there was your work – your stock was too high, or low, you didn’t specify which. I get it. You don’t have experience. You don’t know what to _do_ with a girl like me-“

Bruce Wayne choked on his champagne.

“It’s okay,” I added. “We all have our … issues. You don’t have to pretend. Just be you.”

I smiled at him. Encouragingly.

If there was something hidden in those blue eyes, I think I’d provoked it out.

He … transformed, almost. Unwillingly. And I saw who he was – or perhaps, who he could be.

“Miss Kyle,” he said, putting his champagne glass down carefully. “There are _no_ issues in that department. You are … an attractive woman.”

Aw. Gee. Romance _wasn’t_ dead.

“Wonderful,” I said smiling at him benevolently. “Now that’s out of the way, let’s get the crux of the issue.”

“Which is?”

I waited until the waiter had removed our dishes. The restaurant we were in was one of Gotham’s most exclusive; the menu didn’t have prices. The security was top notch – it wasn’t the kind to boast about it, because that would surely attractive every villain within ten miles – but the restaurant had only ever been attacked by Poison Ivy, Two-Face, and the Riddler. Twice.

I cleared my throat, taking my gaze away from the quiet world of fine dining and couples oozing glamour and riches. (It was hard. There were one or two bracelets that would be _oh so chic_ on my wrist.)

“Simple. You are in a position to do great good.”

Wayne looked intrigued.

“I am intrigued,” he said.

“Good. Tomorrow evening, there’s a soup kitchen I want you to attend.”

To his credit, Wayne didn’t look _too_ taken aback. If anything, I felt his interest zero in. For a moment, I was a fly under a microscope. Or a toad. Being dissected.

“It’s _very exclusive,_ ” I encouraged.

Wayne paused. Hesitated. “Miss Kyle-“

“-call me Selina _, please_.” This was date four. _Four._ All I had was a lousy half a million dollar donation and _Miss Kyle_ to show for it. Patience has never been a virtue I could be accused of.

“Selina. I don’t know if you noticed – and I don’t like to shout about it – but I _am_ rich.”

I stared at him. In his suit. Which probably could pay the mortgage of a home or two. At his hair cut. At his watch. At _him_.

“To be honest, I’m glad you told me. I wasn’t _sure_.”

“It’s true,” he said and there was a hidden twinkle in his eye. (My heart _didn’t_ stop at that twinkle.) “There’s a Forbes article to prove it.”

“So kind of you to reassure me because-“

His phone rang. Because, of course it did.

He looked apologetic. Answered it.

I tapped the white tablecloth with my scarlet fingernails. Waited.

He switched his phone off. Looked at me. Opened his mouth.

I shushed him. “Let me guess – a fire! Perhaps an iceberg is melting. Perhaps there’s an emergency board meeting at-“ I checked my none-existent watch “eight pm at night on a weekend. No- don’t apologise! I insist you go.”

“Selina,” he said, rising.

I stood with him, collected my handbag and smiled.

I was feeling remarkably bitter and slightly slighted. Ready to hand in the towel. A girl _knows_ when she was defeated. However, there was a difference between knowledge and acting on that knowledge.

“I’m sorry. I’ll- I’ll make it up to you.”

“St Thomas’ Soup Kitchen,” I said, and I kissed him on the cheek. My lips left a scarlet mark on his skin. I wiped it off with a napkin. “Be there tomorrow and I might forgive you.”

“Shall I bring a cheque book?” he muttered.

“It’s mandatory,” I said.

Dating Bruce Wayne was like being in purgatory. Caught between heaven and hell. Here was the richest man in Gotham, I could _use_ him and _take so much_. But here I was, saving the world, one soup kitchen at a time.

It was _all_ Batman’s fault. For lighting a spark of inquisitiveness in me – for making me want to try the other side. Temporarily. To see what the fuss about being self-righteous was about.

I glared at the mirror in the cloakroom. If there was a halo there, it had better be the shiniest damn one ever to exist.

To make up for all the good I’d done, I donned my costume that night and went to the high-rise apartment of a wealthy widow. (Husband? Fourth. Dead. Deceased under mysterious circumstances.) I browsed her jewellery and danced to the classical music that drifted underneath the door. Taking a bracelet, I escaped into the night.

Batman didn’t pursue – there was a distant sound of sirens. Perhaps one of the rogues had escaped and was on the rampage.

I went back home and rested.

Perhaps doing good could sit alongside looking out for yourself.

As I drank peppermint tea and watched a TV rerun ( _Remington Steele_ , if you're wondering), I reflected that perhaps it was all about a healthy balance.

Next time I ran into Batman, I’d be sure to tell him about my research.

Isis purred on my lap and I grinned down at her. The Caped Crusader would _definitely_ be dumbfounded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you are all staying safe and well. Forgive me for the delay in posting - I haven't written much recently but am ready to pick up my metaphorical pen once more. Thank you for all your comments, kudos, and hits. I read each one and your support is very much appreciated. It's so NICE to know that there are so many Batfam/BatCat fans out there.
> 
> Until next time - same bat time! same bat channel!
> 
> NEXT TIME:  
> Parents, I learn, are insane.
> 
> Also, Damian should not be left in my care, Talia's care or Batman's care.
> 
> Out of the three – if those are his only options - he's best with me.
> 
> Let that soak in for a wee while. Laugh hysterically. Go on. I’ll let you.


	17. Selina Kyle Is A Terrible Parent (According to Mumsnet)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “No,” I say, still staring at the paving. “I’ll sign you up for a proper school.” 
> 
> There is a stunned silence. 
> 
> “With children?” Damian finally sputters. 

Life falls into a comfortable routine. I knit atrociously and often, and Damian ... heals, I suppose.

I hope.   


I spend three hours attempting to sign him up for a correspondence course and end up swearing at the screen. I buy him the coursework instead. He finds it easy. I buy him language courses. He enjoys them. Occasionally we venture beyond the local shops and their old ladies who coo at Damian and laugh when he frowns at them.

We go hiking in the hills.

We stare at the night sky; for a brief time it’s almost as if I’m on my own. If I’d just glance down I’d see the Gotham skyline. Somewhere – in the maze of skyscrapers and sirens, Batman would be brooding. (His cape flapping picturesquely in the breeze, the scent of justice wafting around him- too far? Too far.)  


Shit. 

I don’t like to think about him. 

(He didn’t even attend my  _ funeral _ . But then, did I ever expect anything more?)

It ’ s awkward sometimes. Beyond the Robins and my sister, I’ve never interacted with children.  But Damian is abnormal. I find that I can cope with him.

He doesn’t demand hugs, for which I’m grateful. Sometimes we chat. Sometimes we don’t. He doesn’t bother me. Well. Until he does. And then I have to take a deep breath and pretend he is a vault and I must be very careful, _very_ careful with him. A little too much pressure in the wrong place and alarms will blare, the police will be called and everything will go to hell. 

( Enough people have hurt him. I will not.)   


He is a little shit on occasion. The kind that stinks and makes you want to throw yourself and then them off a building . But we get over it.  Once we’ve both cooled down.

We have started going through Inkle  Dinkle's Cook Book . I’ve hated every second but shockingly enough, I can bake a mean  _ Cow Pat Cake _ .

And now we are here. At a laser tag centre. Doing stuff a child Selina who still hoped would have loved to have done. .. I’m concerned at the idea of letting Damian loose on other children but he only displays homicidal tendencies on Tuesdays. ( A joke, by the way.)

Also, l et me just clarify this: I am not a mother.

I wouldn’t know where to start. But the woman across from me  _ is. _

And she is glaring.

I’m helping Damian get into his vest. It _should_ be easy but I may have accidentally trapped my finger.

“Alright, you little bastard,” I tell him when he ’ s finally in . “Let me get mine on and then we’ll go wreak  _ carnage. _ ”

I move to collect a vest and the woman steps up to me.

“Stop it,” she hisses in Italian. “ A mother shouldn't speak with her tongue in the gutter.”

I gape at her. The lights are dim but her eyes are bright with rage.

“There are  _ children  _ about,” she adds.

I look around me. Yep. So many children. It’s giving me a headache. Oh look. There’s Damian.  Glaring at everybody. _Aw_.   


“And?” I ask. I grew up in Gotham. As a kid not a single adult ever adjusted their language for me. Hell. I don’t _swear_ that badly. I have _class._

“Set a  _ good  _ example,” the woman continue s , jerking her own vest on. 

“I  _ am _ ,” I say, goaded.

Am I stealing right now? No. Am I - to put it the most basic, stereotypical, terms - robbing a bank? NO.

The woman rolls her eyes. “ _ Bitch _ ,” she mutters under her  breath.

My jaw. Drops.

Did she just accuse me of  gutter speech (ENTIRELY unfounded, may I say)  _ and then call me a bitch? _

I am impressed. The hypocrisy is very Batman.

I go back to Damian.

“Come on, bra-  _ kid.  _ Let’s go. ”

So. Obviously I have to find out the truth.  _ Does  _ swearing  negatively impact children?

I google it.

Parents, I learn, are  _ insane. _

Also, Damian should not be left in my care, Talia's care  _ or  _ Batman's care.

Out of the three – if those are his only options - he's best with me.

Let  _ that  _ soak in for a wee while. Laugh hysterically. Go on. I’ll let you.

There are so many pieces of advi c e on how to be a good parent that it makes me want to  _ stab  _ something. 

I have many thoughts.  _ Many _ . But here is the conclusion of my research: I will never be a parent. I  _ can  _ never be a parent.

Also, right now I feel so  _ trapped.  _ I’m  fuc \-  _ freaking  _ Catwoman and that  _ meant  _ something  to me and now I feel heavily judged by internet strangers.

Judged!

_ By strangers on the internet. _

I’m good at technology but sometimes I hate it.

This is far worse than the time Harley got a hold of my number and sent me twenty pictures of her hyenas  _ every day _ for two months.

(‘EATING DECAPITATED GOATS!’ she captioned one. ‘SNIFFING EACH OTHER’S BUTTHOLES’ another was labelled cheerfully.)

It ended on April Fools. And the punchline ?  _ They weren’t even her hyenas.  _ She was breaking into the  _ zoo  _ every day. I couldn’t even ditch the number – I’d given it to an art dealer and was awaiting his response to a small query of mine.   


(I could have blocked the number but I’d also enjoyed responding by linking articles that discussed the unsavoury nature of hyenas . Sue me, once upon a time Harley had ditched her Mister J and we’d accidentally hung out. She enjoyed life just as much as I did, though she expressed it in …  _ different _ and more  _ chaotic  _ ways. After that, she thought we were friends. I didn’t disillusion her . )

“Damian?” I say quite calmly because I am a rational human being. “Do me a favour and open the window for me.”

The little demon looks up from his place, sprawled on the floor and constructing  L ego. His homework – yes, I have given him  _ homework _ – is lying forgotten beside him.

“ What is it?” he asks as he stands and opens the window for me.

“I want to burn the internet,” I tell him with my laptop in my  arms. I smile as I pass him.

I toss the laptop out of the window into the courtyard below. 

“But this will have to do.”

We watch it crash into  a few pieces. It is not as satisfactory as I wanted it to be. But still.

“Selina,” says Damian with concern. Concern! For me!  Puh -lease. “ Is this the result of a hormonal imbalance? ”

I stare down at the flagstones and the shattered laptop.

“Kid, if you’re asking me if I’m on my period then I suggest you exit this room immediately.”

“Tt. I expect you will attempt to throw  _ me  _ out of the window if I do not.”

“No,” I say, still staring at the paving. “I’ll sign you up for a proper school.”

There is a stunned silence.

“With  _ children _ ?” Damian finally sputters.

I smile genially at him. “Oh yes.  _ Lots. _ ”

“I would wike\- _like_ to clarify; I was not speaking about a _pe_ _w_ _iod_ or insinuating that your hormones are imbalanced because you are a woman.”

“Thank you. That’s what I thought.”

I step away from the window and decide then and  there that though I am  _ not  _ a parent, it is my duty to make sure Damian is as well adjusted as possible.

Bloody hell, he will have enough to deal with without  _ me  _ being a bad influence.

Shit. No. _Shoot._

This is difficult.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My dudes, we are living in turbulent times. I hope you are staying safe and well.
> 
> Until next time ... same bat time! (hahaha. haha. ha. FORGIVE ME!)) same bat channel! 
> 
> NEXT TIME:  
> “In the interest of complete … transparency,” I said as I approached him, “I’d like to point out that I haven’t cracked the safe yet.” 
> 
> “Breaking and entering,” said the Bat, as though that was a damning thing. 
> 
> I stopped my approach. Raised an eyebrow. “And you’re doing … what exactly?”


	18. INTERLUDE OF BAT MEMORIES VIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He knew who I was. He knew what I did. And he knew I was dating Bruce Wayne. And he’d just caught me attempting to break into a safe that was usually found in a mob building. Batman was adding two and two and coming up with orange. 

Being a  _ good  _ guiding influence to Bruce Wayne  was as enjoyable as gouging out  my eyes. Sure, it had its moments but it felt as if I was holding my breath.

_ Damn it all  _ I was being  _ good; _ I stole something maybe twice a week  _ if that,  _ but never in his company. I wasn’t manipulating him for  _ my  _ gain. I was helping him solve the Problems of Gotham.

And though I could have laughed at myself for thinking of it, sometimes it felt like Atlas – like the weight of changing Gotham, of making our hell hole of a city  _ better,  _ was lying directly on my shoulders.

I began to sympathise with Batman.

Well.

Perhaps not  _ completely –  _ how could I?

I hadn’t seen much of Wayne for the last two weeks; he’d been busy – probably tending to his begonias, hell if I knew. He probably wouldn’t have known what begonias  _ were _ . No. That was a lie. For all his froth and idiocy, I was convinced there was something  _ more  _ to Wayne than met the eye.

I kept on seeing cracks in what I was rapidly coming to think was a façade; there was something buried beneath the idiocy. It was my self-appointed job to bring it out. For the good of Gotham and all mankind.

He’d called me up late last night –  _ whilst I was in the middle of a heist, might I add –  _ and cheerfully asked me out.

“I’ve missed you,” he’d said.

Well. A girl could swoon with statements like that. I told him, wondering why I’d let his call come through to my ear piece. I was in the middle of cracking a  _ safe. What was I thinking? Why had I answered? _

“And I’ve missed  _ you _ ,” I murmured, attempting to concentrate on the safe in front of me. It was a Grade Two  IlliamCon and a challenge to crack.

(Real question: why did an ex-wife of a millionaire have a Grade Two  IlliamCon safe in her studio apartment?)

“Hey - tomorrow there’s this charity thing.”

I tensed.

Because tonight I’d been slightly cautious. I hadn’t wanted to be caught by the Bat. I’d laid a small, tiny sensor on the window ledge in the next room.

And now it was softly bleeping in my ear.

“Hey,  _ darling _ ,” I said as I turned. “I’ve got to go. My … shower’s ready. Text me the place and time.”

Not a moment later, Batman stood in the doorway, encased in shadow.

“Why  _ hello,  _ handsome,” I drawled.

Damn it.

“In the interest of complete … transparency,” I said as I approached him, “I’d like to point out that I haven’t cracked the safe yet.”

“Breaking and entering,” said the Bat, as though that was a damning thing.

I stopped my approach. Raised an eyebrow. “And you’re doing … what exactly?”

“ _ Selina,”  _ he said and then his jaw tensed, as though he almost regretted it. (Or it tensed because he was trying to figure out such difficult questions as  _ wait, is hypocrisy … bad _ ?)

I stared.

“ _ Someone  _ has been doing their homework,” I managed, two beats too late. To recover, I applauded him languidly. “How did you find  _ that  _ out?”

“I like to know my-”

“Oh  _ please  _ finish that sentence, Bat.”

“- _ foes _ .”

“I would prefer  _ acquaintances _ ,” I said, standing beside him and resting myself against his stiff form. “But perhaps that would be moving too quickly for you. What? Is this romantic setting making you uncomfortable?”

I gestured to the room with the gothic furniture, the four-poster bed and its gilt-edged ornaments. The fluffy cushions done in a bright scarlet. The fur rug.

“I think we might disagree on your definition of words,” said the Batman in one the longest sentences I’d ever heard him say.

I glanced around. Straightened.

“Shit,” I muttered. “It’s really  _ bad _ , isn’t it?”

“ Hn ,” came the eloquent agreement.

“I wouldn’t say my tastes are exquisite but  _ this  _ looks like Liberace threw up in here.  _ Not  _ that that’s not a bad style, to each their own, but not  _ quite- _ ”

“Catwoman.  _ Leave _ .”

“Aw, but I thought we’d moved on from our  _ made-up  _ names.”

His gauntlet brushed my arm and I found my wrist being encircled by his hand.

“Why Batman, what big hands you have!”

“This isn’t a fairy-tale, Catwoman. We need to  _ leave _ .”

There was the sound of a door opening. A front door.

Shit.

I slipped from Batman’s grip and replaced the picture in front of the safe. I took a moment to check that I’d left everything untouched and then turned. Batman was right beside me. Practically breathing down my neck. I nearly leapt out of my skin, but there wasn’t time for that – one moment I was staring up at him with wide eyes, the second we were racing through the bedroom, into the walk-in closet and out through the window.

I snatched my sensor from the window frame and balanced on the ledge outside.

Glanced down at the street far, far below.

He was standing there – on the other side of the window. A motionless shadow, crouched and looking at me.

“Rooftop,” I whispered. And then I leapt.

He didn’t keep me waiting.

“Listen,” I said. “Before you go into the reasons why I shouldn’t have been cracking  _ that particular safe _ -”

“-or any safe,” he interjected, his hands folded. I was pretty sure he was glowering at me. It made for an impressive sight. Batman with the moon, stars and buildings framing him. Sigh. All the good ones are wasted, aren’t they?

“-but I wasn’t go after anything other than a particularly fine necklace.”

“There wasn’t any necklace. Amelia  Gette famously detests  jewellery . Try again.”

“I’m not sure I can remember when I started explaining myself to you.”

He stepped forward. Took hold of my shoulders.

“Selina,  _ what’s your game? _ "

And then I stared at him and his hidden eyes and I realised what he was really asking. I connected the dots.

He knew who I was. He knew what I did. And he knew I was dating Bruce Wayne. And he’d just caught me attempting to break into a safe that was usually found in a mob building. Batman was adding two and two and coming up with orange.

“Are you  _ jealous?”  _ I asked. “Because I’m dating  _ him  _ because of  _ you _ .”

No. I wasn’t  _ bitter  _ about it or anything.

His grip on my shoulders seemed to tighten for a second.

“Explain.”

I shook his hands off. Stepped away. 

“You can only do so much as you are, can’t you? For all the good Batman can do – and it  _ pains  _ me to admit that you are doing  _ some  _ good. Occasionally.  _ He _ can do so much more. Tell me – how much money does  _ this  _ cost?” I gestured to his suit. “Some of the gadgets and gizmos and vehicles you own could fund all of Gotham’s orphanages for  _ years.  _ And maybe run a few women’s shelters and inject some much-needed cash into training cops who aren’t in the mob’s pay.”

Nothing from him. I was getting nothing.

“Well guess what – I have an opportunity to help someone direct his funds in the right places. To help Gotham.  _ Imagine what a refurbished  _ _ Arkham _ _ could do _ ? Instead of a revolving door, picture  _ rehabilitated patients.” _

“Very  _ philanthropi _ c of you,” gritted out Batman.

“ Awww , did the  wittle Batman have his  _ ego  _ hurt? Blame yourself. I wanted to help.”

“By  _ manipulating _ someone?” He sounds outraged.

“ _ For good. _ What the-” I stepped towards him and jabbed a finger in his chest. “What the hell do  _ you  _ think  _ you’re  _ doing? Are you much  _ better  _ than me? Hell!  _ You’re  _ breaking the law in order to stop  _ criminals _ . I’m  _ helping  _ him  _ help  _ others. If anything, I think  _ I’ve  _ got a bloody shinier halo than you right now!”

“ _ You were about to rob someone. _ "

“ _ And you were breaking and entering!” _

Silence.

Glower.

Brood.

I met him silence for silence. Glower for glower.

And then I broke, exclaiming: “It’s  _ your  _ example that I’m- mmpfh !”

I was being kissed. Thoroughly. Savagely. I met him toe to toe for that too.

And then he tore his mouth away. There was a distant whirring of a siren. A helicopter shot out over our heads, its searchlight tracing the buildings.

_ “Hell,”  _ he muttered.

“Yeah,” I agreed.

“Leave that safe  _ alone _ ,” he said, stepping back, his hands cradling my elbows.

“Of course,” I said, untruthfully.

“ _ Selina.” _

“Don’t wear the name out,  _ Bat _ .”

And then he was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you are staying well and safe. Thank you so very much for reading/kudo-ing/commenting and until next time? same bat time! same bat channel!
> 
> NEXT TIME:  
> “You are very anxious, Kyle,” says the brat. 
> 
> “It’s been too easy,” I mutter under my breath. 
> 
> “Tt.” 
> 
> “Life isn’t nice like this,” I tell him as we turn the street that leads to our apartment. It’s narrow, steep, curving. 
> 
> “You are not teaching me optimal life lessons,” remarks the little Demon.


	19. Selina Kyle Is A Perrenial Worrier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He doesn’t make friends, exactly. But he learns that normal children do not resort to violence when threatened. That they don’t enter a room and map the escape routes and possible threats before relaxing. They don’t make a mistake and then brace for blows.

We have been living in Italy for several months now. I’ve stopped keeping track. One day, I catch a glimpse of the date on my phone and it makes me pause. Time has slipped through my fingers – unmarked by Gotham disasters, alien invasions (it seems they’ve been avoiding our patch), Rogues gone wild, and that ever present ache of personal turmoil that rose beneath my skin whenever I saw a damn Bat.

It’s bizarre.

Bizarre but …there has been peace. There has been a fragile, blooming happiness like the spring that bloomed so brilliantly. It’s strengthened as the summer wore on – and now it feels as ever present as the sunshine and the greenery that is crammed in every nook, every cranny, every corner.

Delicate, wistful spring gave way to sun and heat and skin and tourists and Damian sprouting ever taller.

And yet, in spite of it all, it feels as if this is the calm before the storm.

I haven’t paid the piper yet. And I _always_ have. Selina Kyle isn’t a woman that life has been kind to. I’ve made my way _in spite_ of the challenges in front of me.

No.

I haven’t paid the piper yet, but I expect him to call.

I am dead, officially.

I have had no contact with my past.

I have been quiet. I have taken a new name: _Ecaterina Batuc_ who lives with her little nephew _Eduord_. We have a checkered past. We have come from Moldova, in search of a better world.

I once lived in America. I don’t like to speak about it – painful lessons were learned there (I told signora Eliana, our next door neighbour) and I found it to be an unhappy place. I leapt at the opportunity to come to Italy to care for my dead sister's son.

Familia este familie _,_ I say, sighing. _Family is family._

I speak English with him sometimes, in the hopes that it will give him a step up when he goes into the big bad world. He calls me _Kyle_ because he is _very strange_ and I call him brat because he has so many issues. So many! God willing, he will get better when he is older. Perhaps I will dare send him to school. He is very troubled – my sister’s death, you know. And _how_ are you? Enough about me!

And as time stretches on and we live and _like_ the living ... sleep becomes difficult. I toss and I turn and I force myself to stay still.

I should move and keep on moving, I know. Paris. Rome. Damian and I could go anywhere.

We don’t, though.

Why would we?

I’ve seen the way the world works. He’s experienced the brunt of its brutality.

Together, we stay in that little village. Venturing forth to see the sights of Italy, but only when my conscience grows unsettled. (He needs to get out more. He needs to _socialize._ )

After much argument, Damian goes three times a week to an extra-curricular activity group.

He doesn’t make _friends_ , exactly. But he learns that normal children do not resort to violence when threatened. That they don’t enter a room and map the escape routes and possible threats before relaxing. They don’t make a mistake and then brace for blows.

I want to send him to school. An exclusive one. I’m eyeing a school in Switzerland.

It looks excellent.

But something in me – the girl who grew up in the gutter of the world, the woman who saw the wealthy and found all but a few to be lacking in brains and heart ... well. I can’t bear the thought of Damian growing beyond me.

Out of reach.

Of him looking at me one day and seeing a thief and nothing more.

So, of course, I hunt out the most high-brow school. I’ve dared the world once.

I’ll do it again.

He has a brilliant mind. He needs to be able to exercise it, unhindered. Not in some shadowed corner of the world where intelligence can be corrupted and twisted into something dark and unpleasant ... but in a place where it can blossom.

Where he can shine.

Make a difference.

Solve world hunger.

That kind of shit- _stuff_.

Damian could be the best of us.

I’ve got to help him. And hell _-heck_ _,_ if you’d told me that I’d be doing this a year ago, I would have laughed in your face.

But here I am. People change too. Not always overnight, but through a slow, steady journey. And here I am. Selina Kyle. In Italy with a little boy who is slowly healing.

Selina Kyle. In Italy. Desperately pretending that she isn’t waiting for the other boot to drop.

(Talia ... Damian said she might still be looking. And the ‘might’ is something that keeps me awake at night. If she takes Damian ... what will she do? I have spoiled him, in her eyes. Softened him. Turned a small soldier into a kid.)

“Kid,” I say as we walk back from the small bakery, breakfast pastries in brown bags tucked under our arms.

Damian looks up at me. He’s growing so quickly. I swear he creeps up an inch per day. _At least_.

“If something _bad_ happens-” I start.

“I have the number,” he tells me. “I have my father’s address. I know what to say.”

Contingency plans, Bat. You’d be so proud of me.

I nod my head. Increase my strides. My heels click against the cobbles and the sun shines on my face. Snow caped mountains loom in the far distance, a background to our winding street.

“You are very anxious, Kyle,” says the brat.

“It’s been too _easy,”_ I mutter under my breath.

“Tt.”

“Life isn’t _nice_ like this,” I tell him as we turn the street that leads to our apartment. It’s narrow, steep, curving.

“You are not teaching me optimal life lessons,” remarks the little Demon, stopping and crouching for a moment.

A neighbourhood cat gingerly approaches him. Sniffs haughtily against his fingers. Winds itself around my legs.

“Some people would say we shouldn’t leave food out for strays,” I muse as I watch his hand disappear into his pocket and reemerge with a treat.

“Idiots. Strays need food the most.”

I smile at his bent head. I’ve taught him _life philosophies_.

(The first one? Killing is Bad – depending on the circumstance – but if you do it, Batman will be very disappointed. The second? Feed the strays. They are unwanted by society but what does society know? Nothing. Society is utter trash populated by hypocrites.)

Damian stands at last, the brown pastry bag crinkling under his arm.

“And what will happen to you?” he asks. “If my mother comes for me?”

He looks like he needs a hug. As much as Damian _can_ look like that. I’m not sure how I know it. Perhaps it is the uncertainty glimmering in his eye. He is worried, I think.

(I have the ghastly image of him being forced back into a world where everyone cares about what he can _do_ but no one cares for _him._ The loneliness - the possibility of it – forms a tight knot in my gut.)

I place my hand on his shoulder and smile.

“I’ll be like a zombie,” I tell him. “If we are separated, I will hunt you down for your brainnnsssss.”

“Humph.” He is not impressed.

I ruffle his hair because I know he barely tolerates it.

“Kid. If you think I’d leave you be after I taught you how to knit ...”

“Better than you,” he interjects.

I ignore it.

“And if you _think_ I would forget about you after you’ve forced me to watch _every damn-_ shit- _dang_ oh damn it episode of Inkle Dinkle.”

“Please. My innocent ears,” says the boy who swears fluently in Arabic when he doesn’t think I can hear.

(I shouldn’t have told him about my non-mild-swearing resolve. Damn it.)

“Shut it. And _if_ you think I would leave you alone after I invested an _entire_ day tramping through a _dairy farm_ and getting _chased by a freaking farmer because someone thinks cow pats are hilarious and also wants to ride a COW!! ..._ well. You would be very wrong.”

“It was an experience I will not soon forget,” enthuses Damian. “In fact, I am glad you mentioned it. I have found a farm nearby that has a different breed of cow that _closely_ resembles-"

He glances up and sees the glint in my eye.

“I am looking forward to the pastries,” he says hurriedly. “The weather is as can be expected this time of year. Tell me another implausible story about how you bested my Father.”

I’m so very glad my ‘How To Change The Subject 101’ lessons have been of use to him.

Sometimes, the distance he has come since I found him ... it steals my breath. He is so young. He is healing. And yet, he is adjusting at a remarkable rate. His maturity is far beyond his age.

(He is like an old – _slightly moderately_ violent – soul stuffed in a young body and paired with a hidden heart of gold.)

I’m ... heck, I’m proud of him.

This kind of caring hurts. Because if something ever happens to him ... I haven’t paid the piper yet. But I swear that when the time comes, when all hell breaks loose ...

I will protect him.

Not because he is Batman's son – it’s never been about that. Not because he reminds me of me – though he does. But because I look at him and I know that I would throw my body in front of a bullet, be chased through a thousand farmers’ fields, watch every episode of Inkle Dinkle ten times over ... just to see him safe.

Happy.

Laughing.

Selina Kyle, ladies and gentlemen. Not good. Not great.

But for the first time, putting someone else first.

Lo! How the mighty cat burglar has fallen.

Summer meanders on and we live and we learn and we grow like the crops on the fields. I tell him about Batman. Not the symbol but the man behind it. The _good_ man. Beneath the hypocrisy. Beneath the rage. Beneath the loneliness. I told him about the glimmers I’d seen. (And sure! I mention his flaws – much to Damian’s rage - I believe in managing expectations.)

Sleep doesn’t come easily for me. Paranoia nips at my heels.

It was easier when I didn’t care; when I faced my fears and laughed in their faces.

But now I care. Far too much. It is unpleasant and my skin itches with it.

Every day falls like sand through an hourglass. Time feels like it is running out and I am breathless with it.

And so I wait and I watch and I plan.

And I help Damian _live_ as much as I can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS! GUYS! Do you sense that? IT IS PLOT! COMING YOUR WAY!!! VERY SOON!!!
> 
> Please stay safe and well - thanks ever so much for your support in reading, kudo-ing and commenting!
> 
> Until next time ... same cat time, same cat channel!
> 
> NEXT TIME:
> 
> “Whatzitlike?” he mumbled out as I found a vein. Swabbed his arm with antiseptic.  
> “The costume? I think I gave the directives of sleek, streamline, and sexy.”  
> “Hn.”  
> In went the needle. Down went the plunger. This better work, a girl could put up with only so many shocks per day.  
> “Colour?”  
> “Black.” I held a cotton ball down on his arm.  
> “Hn. Not going back to purple?”  
> “Grown out of it.” And I couldn’t get the fabric in the right shade.  
> “Pity.”  
> “You, er, liked it?”  
> “Hn.”   
> I was hallucinating.


	20. INTERLUDE OF BAT MEMORIES IX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Batman I knew wouldn’t trust you to wipe your own ass if he wanted information from you.

I was yawning over a nightcap when Batman appeared outside my kitchen window.

…

He tapped on the glass.

…

Batman. On the fire escape. Outside the window. Tapping the glass.

…

I glanced back at my nightcap. I hadn’t made it that strong, had I?

I looked back at the window.

He was still there.

I opened the window. My brain felt very blank. I had no quips. No wit. I’d just come back on a red eye flight, that had had multiple connections starting in Egypt.

(And no, I _hadn’t_ stolen any cat statues.)

(Okay. Maybe one.)

“Handsome, do we have to do this now?” I asked, leaning against the window frame. “I haven’t stolen anything, I haven’t been planning anything, and I haven’t been colluding with anyone-” So. I may have stretched the truth a tiny- nope. I was stretching it like a lycra suit that was three sizes too small. “-so _why_ are you here? Don’t tell me that you’ve missed me because we _both_ know you’d be lying.”

“ _Selina_.”

“Right.” I stood back and he entered.

The Caped Crusader himself was in _my_ kitchen, staring at my table and stove and plants which are everywhere and Isis who had stolen my seat … and for a split second, he almost seemed unsure of himself.

Or he could just be tired etc etc. I had very little to work with here. The man was masked. His jaw was a slash of a line. And very strong. And masculine. Really, a very _nice_ jaw- _pull it together, self._

“There was a breakout in Arkham,” he said, turning back to me.

“And in other news the sky is blue,” I said.

“It’s been contained.”

“Ah.”

Silence.

Heck. I’m sure you could have heard me blinking. Or Isis grooming herself. Either of them really. I was so bloody tired my eyelids felt impossibly weighted. Shit. Should’ve taken a catnap instead of obsessively researching that job on the plane.

“Who hired you to break into Amelia Gette’s safe?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Yeah. I know. Not my finest.

“I do. It’s connected with the breakout.”

I stared at him.

“I-” he clears his throat. “-would like this information.”

“Uh. And how is it _connected_?”

“I suspect that your _sponsor_ wanted the drive which was stored in Amelia Gette’s safe which contained, amongst other things, a formula for a special drug that would-”

“Special drug?” I repeat. What the hell? He’s not dropping some sort of scientific Latin medical jargon?

“It’s _connected_.”

I stared him. My brain was a few seconds behind processing what he’d just said.

“Bat?” I say, slowly with a suspicious glance at the glass on the table. _What had I put in it_? “Are you _asking_ me something – straight out _asking_. And saying _why_?”

Pause.

“Yes.”

“Wow,” I muttered. Was this the twilight zone? Had the Justice League been defeated and the world was entering into a parallel dimension where _Batman_ asked _straight out questions and offered reasons?_ And called a drug ‘ _a special drug’_?!

What the hell.

Did Batman _sway_ a little? “I do that sometimes. I am known for my direct directions.”

???

“Are you _okay_?”

Silence.

“I may have been compromised.”

“Oh shit."

“I echo the sentiment.”

“You echo the- Bat! This isn’t _good!_ Even _I_ wasn’t allowed to know anything about what was on that drive.”

Batman was definitely swaying.

“Selina. You went back and stole the drive.”

“Er.”

“You copied the drive.”

“Well, now you mention it-”

“I need to know who hired you to steal the drive. The chances they have become aware that you made a copy have risen by 64%. You are in danger. I have three suspects but my mind has become clouded and my thoughts are not as clear as they are at optimum proficiency. I have three hours before my mental facilities shut down. You are giving me the shortcut. The _name_.”

He was nearly growling at this point. Growling and vomiting words. Wow. Who’d have thought.

“If you could provide me with a copy of the formula to manufacture an antidote, I would be-” I could hear him grinding his teeth “-grateful.”

Maybe an old version of myself would have dragged this out for as long as she could. Maybe she would have gloated.

But I was tired. The Amelia Gette job had proved to be far more of a hassle than I had anticipated.

I moved Isis off my chair. Pointed to it.

“Sit. Were Robin or Batgirl compromised too?”

“No.” A glint of weary humour. “Am I spared a lecture?”

I was _freaking_ out. I jabbed a finger at him.

“Shut it, Bat. Shut it.”

I disappeared into my bedroom. There was a safe room behind it. I opened it. I wasn’t an idiot – when you find that you’ve accidentally stolen a formula to a drug that affects neurotransmitters, well, this being Gotham … you cover your ass.

I pulled out the antidote that had cost _far_ too much and came back to kitchen. He hadn’t followed me. Which showed you just how much he was far gone.

The Batman I knew wouldn’t trust you to wipe your own ass if he wanted information from you.

This Batman _hadn’t_ followed me.

“I made an antidote.”

There was a frozen silence.

“Am I supposed to _trust_ you?” he bit out.

There he was, ladies and gentlemen! The Paranoid Predator of P- I gave up on the mental alliteration.

“No, handsome. But listen up- I'm jetlagged as hell, and a new costume fitting tomorrow morning at a hellish hour and I’m offering you the antidote that cost a month’s work – which I’m sure you are _very_ aware is _a lot_ and quite frankly I don’t _care_ if you don’t-”

“A new costume?”

My brain stalled. I glanced at the nightcap again. Was I hallucinating? “ _That’s_ the only thing you got out of that?”

“I’m compromised?”

“Oh hell, Bat, _you so are._ "

He undid his gauntlet presented his arm to me.

“Whatzitlike?” he mumbled out as I found a vein. Swabbed his arm with antiseptic.

“The costume? I think I gave the directives of _sleek, streamline, and sexy_.”

“Hn.”

In went the needle. Down went the plunger. This _better_ work, a girl could put up with only so many shocks per day.

“Colour?”

“Black.” I held a cotton ball down on his arm.

“Hn. Not going back to purple?”

“Grown out of it.” And I couldn’t get the fabric in the right shade.

“Pity.”

“You, er, _liked_ it?”

“Hn.”

I _was_ hallucinating.

“They said that it would take five minutes to kick in.”

“Recovery time?”

“Er- 24 hours?”

“I don’t have the time.”

Of course, he didn’t.

“Side effects?”

“A sense of humour?”

“Hn. Funny,” he was back to growling.

I breathed a sigh of relief. He was sitting at _my_ actual _kitchen table_ and he was _growling_ at me again. Surreal, but comforting.

“I like this batsuit better,” I blurted out. Curse my jetlagged brain. I sounded like an _infant. “_ The ear to er, mask ratio is much better.”

“What?”

“Very intimidating, less, er, cartoonish. For a _bat_ suit.”

A beat.

“You dress up as a _cat_.”

“ _Inspired_ by cats.”

He gave me a hard stare. He was coming around. What did he say? _His mental facilities were clouded._ His brain weather forecast was looking up.

“You have cat ears. Claws. You call yourself _Catwoman.”_

“What’s that? The pot calling the kettle black, _Batman?_ "

“I have a _reason.”_

 _“_ To dress up as a bat? Are you sure it’s not one long, extended Halloween party for you?”

“If it is, we’re trapped in the same one.”

“Touché. At least _I_ don’t have a cape.”

There’s another silence.

“You have a whip.”

“ _Some_ of us prefer to do things _with style.”_

“You had a lair on 32 Pussyfoot Road.”

“It was _a coincidence._ "

“And then there were the Catacombs.”

This coming from the man who prefixes everything with ‘Bat’? It was supposed to be _ironic_.”

“The Kitty Litter Sandbox of Fur-ious Death?”

I reached for the glass containing my nightcap and drained it.

“I was sleep deprived,” I mumbled.

“I liked that one,” Batman said, reflectively. “You wore the purple suit and your hair was loose.”

My eyebrows couldn’t have possibly climbed higher. “I’m glad you noticed.”

“You told me you were the Princess of Plunder.”

“ _Ironically.”_

“... really?”

“YES!”

“... do you think the Condiment King is an ironic name?”

“NO! _Please_ tell me the antidote is kicking in. The only times you are vaguly _human_ when you are near death, stricken with flu or _drugged_ and, Handsome, it is getting-"

“Your fur up?” Batman supplied helpfully.

I stared at him, aghast. I didn’t know whether to be delighted with him, horribly offended, murderous, or just mad.

I shoved a USB stick at him. Try to inject normality back into the conversation.

“It’s got the antidote formula on it,” I said. “Use it if you need it.”

“Who hired you?” he asked, taking it. He had been slumped on the chair. Now he straightened and put his gauntlet back on and I could _feel_ the Bat-glare settling back into place.

“I traced it back to Luthor,” I admitted. I swear, it felt like choking to tell him. “I didn’t _know_ what it was. What it could do. It paid well.”

“It always does.”

I ignored that jibe. “Gotham is a testing grounds before he starts on Metropolis, huh?”

“Amongst other things.”

I would _not_ feel bloody guilty. When I said it had paid well, I meant it.

He stood. Staggered a little.

“The toxin is wearing off,” he said, his gaze directed at my hand which was outstretched to catch him.

I let it drop.

“Are you going to leave now?” I asked, exhaustion crashing down on my shoulders.

He strode to the window. Hesitated. Turned back.

“Selina, by stealing the drive-”

Oh ho look at him! Trying to appeal to my _conscience._

“Do you want me to feel guilty?” Asshole.

“I want you to be aware of the consequences of your actions.”

“I’ll repent with sackcloth and ashes.”

“People could have _died_ , Selina.”

“If it wasn’t me, it would have been someone else.”

“I would have stopped them.”

“Right. Because you _let_ me steal it.”

“I had _hoped_ you would have kept your-”

“Promise? Puh-lease. What’s a promise of a thief anyway?”

He turned back to the window. “Apparently, nothing.”

He was gone.

I poured myself another nightcap, overslept and missed my costume fitting appointment.

Oh yes.

I was quite certain.

The blame lay solely at Batman’s feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. Forgive me. I have had a mental block further along in the story. It's okay, I'll wrangle it through but I thought I'd better post this chapter as it has been so long since the last one. Thank you for your continued support and reading, kudo-ing and commenting!
> 
> I hope you are well and staying safe.
> 
> until next time ... same bat time! same bat channel!
> 
> NEXT TIME:
> 
> I’ll give it to Talia – her men are tough.
> 
> Awesome.
> 
> I’m tougher. 
> 
> Also – creative.
> 
> I grab my rolling pin out of the drawer and throw it at him just as he turns and gets ready to sprint.


	21. Selina Kyle, Amateur Astronomer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If this is rage, it is a dark thing.

The morning is a beautiful one. The sun streams through my open bedroom windows, casting warm gold on my bed and my feet.

I yawn. Stretch. Yesterday, the kid and I practiced some of my favourite martial art moves. My body feels remarkably good for it.

It was ... pleasant. And the longing for a night in Gotham with the world and the rooftops at my feet didn’t feel, well, it didn't feel as strong at all.

Huh.

Funny how that happens.

A cat – Neferet, we’ve named her. A neighbourhood stray who has adopted us – raises her head and stares at me.

I lie there, stroking her pale cream fur and contemplating the ceiling.

Damian should be up around now. Usually, I would be too but I stayed up late reading a volume on art history. (It was dry and dusty and also rather intriguing.)

Enough of this, as pleasant as it is. I am craving a coffee so strong you could stand a teaspoon in it.

I leap out of bed, my bare feet meeting the cold tiles. Neferet leaps after me and together, after I pull some sweatpants on, we pad to the door. It is heavy wood, old and ornate and always takes a bit of umph to open.

In the room beyond it, the shutters are still open and a telescope is set up before the wide windows. A duvet lies pooled on the floor, cream against the brown tiles.

Neferet patters over to the kitchen, disappearing through the archway.

I stare at the duvet.

Our apartment has two bedrooms, a study (used solely for wool storage), a bathroom and a kitchen.

All the doors are open, with the exception of mine.

My brain is fizzing and spitting. White is misting the edges of my vision.

My mouth turns very dry.

I check every room.

Twice.

Only warm sunlight and a cat inhabit the apartment.

I cross back to the duvet. I pick it up very gently.

There’s a small clatter; a chink of glass meeting tile.

I kneel down beside it, stare.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand.

“You should not have taken him,” a voice says.

And you shouldn’t have given me warning.

I roll to the side and a sword crashes against the floor.

It’s been awhile since I engaged in combat. A disadvantage.

But then again, I’ve never truly fought for _someone_ rather than _something_ I’d stolen.

A bullet in my head; I must have pissed Talia off than - a bullet would have been far more efficient. This is a bit more personal.

I spring to my feet. Face my opponent. He’s taller than my 5’7. More like 6 something with those boots.

But then, I’m used to fighting someone taller.

He is clothed in typical minion League garb – bland and uninspiring. Bleh.

I’m on the defensive. Used too much time processing.

I duck. Roll. Again.

Spring to my feet. Quick. Where’s a weapon?

I spin, snatch the telescope. It’s heavy. Good.

I swing it at my attacker.

Study _this_ , turd.

( _Not_ my best, let’s be honest.)

His sword crashes into the telescope. Gets stuck.

We stare at it - both surprised that his sword didn't go through it like a hot blade through butter. Sturdy thing.

I wrench it. Twisting.

Gah. Damn. He's bloody strong.

We're playing tug-of-war with a telescope and a sword. Not the strangest thing I’ve done in combat. Up there, but not the strangest.

My brain is quick, thoughts like a ticker-tape at the bottom of a news broadcast.

He is hooded and I can't see his eyes. Excellent fashion choice. Visibility bad for him though. Idiot. I have the bright sunshine behind me.

Thanks, Mother Nature. Blind him for me.

I feint, as if I’m going to attempt to yank the telescope. A screeching sound of blade against glass or whatever the heck fills this telescope. (Titanium?)

Drop the telescope. Launch myself to the side. My fist, his throat. Throw my body behind it. Ram him to the floor.

He rolls. He’s let go of the sword. Good move.

We are crouching. No time for him to recover. He’s fumbled out a dagger. Tense. About to spring at me. He's still suffering from my throat punch.

I mean - the whole thing: good effort, but _really?_

No handgun?

Talia, _you idiot._

I could launch myself at him but I’ve sparred with bats on rooftops far too often.

Time to up my game.

I turn and race to the kitchen. He is silent as he runs after me.

Duck. Quick. A knife thuds into a kitchen cabinet. Shit. Grazed my ear.

Yank the drawer open. Slip my hand in. Should have practiced this more. Twist. Face him. He’s three paces away, another dagger ready to fly in his hand.

Well.

Have fun with that.

Raise my own hand. I flipped the safety as I brought it out.

Steady – one millisecond, I don’t have more.

Aim – just to maim. Not to kill. I need him for answers.

Fire – bite my bullet.

BLAM!!

I hit his arm and there’s a clatter as his dagger hits the kitchen floor.

He clutches at his arm and backs away. He’s going to do a runner. I’ll give it to Talia – her men are tough.

Awesome.

I’m tougher.

Also – creative.

I grab my rolling pin out of the drawer and hurl it at him just as he turns and gets ready to sprint.

It clocks him on the head and he falls like a tree.

I lower my gun. Use some strong wool to tie the man up. Check the rooms thoroughly.

Taking some kitchen towel, I collect the glass bottle from the floor and deposit it in a small plastic zip-locked sandwich bag.

I’ll analyse it in- _shoot, I don’t have a lab, do I?_

Breathe, Kyle. _Breathe._

Back to my attacker.

I feel cold.

It’s summer and the sun is shining but _I am cold all over._

_Damian._

I need to interrogate Talia's man before I rush off. I have so many questions, but under everything is this bubbling, liquid panic that makes me want to throw up.

_No. Don’t dwell on emotion. What does Bat do? He channels his rage._

(Not always _well_ but he's made Superman himself superpiss in his pants. Probably. If you believe the average proud Gothamite. So that could be effective.)

I crouch over my attacker. Snatch his hood off.

In his prime. Never seen him before. I search him. He must have an extraction point. An extraction time.

I was supposed to be executed. (Beheaded?) Why didn’t they do it when I was sleeping? Why didn’t I hear anything?

I shove the questions aside. Quickly examine myself. My mouth isn’t dry and my arms don’t reveal an injection site. My door was closed. I didn't hear a thing. _Did they Zatanna me??_ No, don't think now. Time to wonder later.

He has nothing on him except for a small, smooth black device tucked into his belt. It's jet back. I hold it up close to my face. It’s not a stone. A transmitter then. I can work with that.

Back to my attacker. What to do?

There’s a dark voice in my head, tempting me. I could do so much damage. I could make him scream. I could make him tell me _anything I wanted_.

If this is rage, it is a dark thing.

I welcome the cold that fills me. Chills me.

_Control. I need to take control._

I drag him to the knitting room. It’s not a panic room – I haven’t spent months getting contractors in, installing heavy, impenetrable doors and walls and wiring the place up into a Lair Eddie Nygma would be proud of.

(These things take time. I’m pretty sure that none of Gotham’s do-gooders realise the amount of effort it takes to set up a lair. An elaborate trap. At the point, I died, it was a whole industry.)

But I’m also a thief and am very familiar with locks; the strongest ones. And my knitting room is as secure as I could make it when we first moved in.

I make sure he doesn’t have any weapons on him and then I leave.

I have the device in my hands. I’ll examine it in a moment. I take the gun and slid it under the strap of my underwear.

Carefully, I slip out of the apartment. The village we live in is sleepy – anything unusual would be noticed and mentioned and gossiped about in the cafés.

They would have been careful.

A pre-dawn extraction of Damian then. Perhaps he’d fallen asleep at the foot of the telescope, his mind on the stars. Free of expectations. Of a heavy destiny. Fated to take up the mantle of-

 _Damn it_.

_Nonononono._

Can’t think of it now.

Control.

Take control.

I search the building. The roof. Outside. The courtyard. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

Zero. Nada. Zilch.

A neighbour leans out of her window overhead.

 _“Catea!”_ she calls, her Italian rippling out into the morning air. _“Good morning! Would you like to stop for a coffee?”_

_“No! But thank you! It is very kind. Helena – have you seen Damian? I think he has sneaked out.”_

_“Chasing after the stray cats again is he, Catea? No. I haven’t.”_

I thank her and turn back. Nothing but a glass vial and a transmitter.

Batman has solved cases with less. Far less.

And Talia may still have her men in the are. Waiting. She wouldn’t let someone take _her own blood_ without enacting some form of revenge.

Back up the stairs. Into our apartment.

_What is the little brat thinking now? Is he safe? Are they filling up his head with lies? Are they hurting him- Mustn't think about that. Not yet.  
_

There is a muted thud in the knitting room.

Then – silence.

My guest is awake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I'm still here. I hope you are all well and staying safe! Keep going!
> 
> Forgive the lengthy pause - I got tangled up in the Bat Interludes and how to end them because the plot is kicking in and they will be a distraction. There's one more of them left and then the past will drop away.
> 
> This is the first time proper action kicks in AND A PLOT?????? MAYBE???????
> 
> This isn't perfect but man alive, I am enjoying writing it and I hope you enjoy reading it. Thank you for all your lovely comments, hits, and kudos!
> 
> Until next time - same bat time! same bat channel!
> 
> NEXT TIME:
> 
> Naiveté, thy name is Selina Kyle.
> 
> Whatever we had, was gone. Buried. Burned.
> 
> I wasn’t good enough.


	22. BAT INTERLUDE - END

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And then one day I found out who he was.

Once upon a time, there was a Cat and a Bat.

Don’t believe what they say in Gotham about the Cat – she isn’t just a petty thief. Don’t believe what they say in Gotham about the Bat – he isn’t just a symbol. A legend. A dark knight, waging war against the evil.

We were more than our costumes.

I, for example, enjoyed nice cool walks along the beach. I’d never _taken_ one, but if I _had_ found a beach and had the time – I’d enjoy the crap out of it.

And him? Ha! He had more layers than an onion. If you look past the self-righteousness, the stick-up-his-butt, the complete hypocrisy of his actions … he was kind. He was terrifyingly intelligent. (Well, at least … he’s fooled the world into _believing that_.) If you had his loyalty – his respect – then you held the world in your hands. If you were one of his flock of Robins, and someone _hurt_ you? Heaven help them. They’d end up as a flesh-sack of broken bones. And he had his honour system. His code. His rules.

And he stuck by them, come hell or high water.

He didn’t know _how_ to compromise. He was like an old film – entirely black-and-white.

Good.

Bad.

Grey? The only thing he knew that was grey was a) one bat costume, b) the sprinkling in his hair and c) his boxers.

I didn’t _want_ to be against him – he got in the way. In my way.

And then one day I found out who he was.

(One look at his ward. One moment standing in Wayne Manor and all the puzzle pieces fell together and _seriously how the hell hadn’t I guessed?)_

Shit had an abrupt and unhappy meeting with a fan, if you know what I’m saying.

To mix metaphors - when the dust had settled … we tried to make a go of it.

It did not _go._

In a different world, in a different time … perhaps it could have done. Perhaps we would have been happy. Had a kid. Or two. _Oh hell no_. _One_ kid and a few cats and hell, I’ll throw in a dog or two. To be kind. Yeah. Heart of bloody _gold_ , other-me has!

Perhaps the kid Robins could have had a life. Resigned. Gone to school. Taken classes in literature, earned a degree at a tiptop freakin' university. Done computer science and excelled and won a Nobel Prize (listen, who knows how it works but … Tim Drake could have done it.). Become a world class gymnast. And so on and so forth.

But this … wasn’t that world.

Our dreams – the kind that you have but don’t _ever_ say out loud – crumble at the cold touch of reality. They rot when you realise the man you _maybe_ could at some point love can’t see passed your past.

Doesn’t quite trust you.

(You’re not as _upright_ as him. You make stupid jokes that _oh wouldn’t it be easier just to plant the evidence, steal the thing etc etc_ and you look into his blue eyes and realise … he thinks you’d do it. And the truth is? You just _might_.)

They melt away – painfully – like snow. Turn into mud-brown slush and reveal the shitty Gotham pavements beneath.

Listen – I had wishes, I had dreams. I thought Bruce Wayne … The Batman … could have … could have …

I was a fool.

Sue me.

It’s painful to admit it but there we go.

Naiveté, thy name is Selina Kyle.

Whatever we had, was gone. Buried. Burned.

I wasn’t good enough.

To hell with him. To hell with the Robins and the heroes and _justice and all that crock of upright steaming diseased bullshit._

I’d do my own thing.

 _And I’d_ _bloody well do it well._

And so I did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M BACK!!!!!!
> 
> Forgive me for the lengthy delay. This is on my to-do list of finishing before the year is out, so I'm back on the case.
> 
> Thank you for reading, for commenting, for kudo-ing. It's wonderful to see the alerts pop up and remember: oh yeah, I've got this story that I haven't got out of my head yet. It's coming guys! I hope you are well!
> 
> This is the last Bat Interlude.
> 
> NEXT TIME:
> 
> It’s been so long since I’ve seen violence. My stomach has softened. I don’t rush to the toilet to throw up, but … it’s a close call.


	23. Selina Kyle Asks For Help (With Bad Euphemisms)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fault didn’t lie in our stars - it lay with us. (Or more, specifically, with a certain Dark Crusader Who Needed To Take A Freakin’ Chill Pill.)

I am ready. I have the sharpest knives the local corner store could buy and a gun. (Yeah, _stylish._ Sue me. Who cares?)

I will open the door.

I will find out what I need to know.

I turn the handle.

The door opens quietly. No one snatches it backwards or rushes me.

Quiet.

Too quiet.

From what I can see, all my baskets of wool are in the same place. Nothings has been moved.

His feet come into view. I have a bad feeling. Bile rises in my throat. I shove the door wide open.

The assassin is dead.

He’s shoved a knitting needle directly into his eye. Bit of an overkill, really.

“Shit,” I mutter.

It’s been so long since I’ve seen violence. My stomach has softened. I don’t rush to the toilet to throw up, but … it’s a close call.

(His head is leaning against a basket of my wool – it's a beautiful soft white and now it’s stained with blood. I know it’s insensitive and not the place nor the time but … _damn it_. I had _plans_ for that wool.)

I let my gun drop to my side and I pinch my nose. It’s surprising but my fingers are trembling. I’ve grown _soft._

A tide of complete disgust rushes over me.

Soft.

The old Selina Kyle would have handled this quickly. Proficiently. She would be more _prepared_. She wouldn’t have let her guard down.

The old Selina didn’t know that happiness could be found in watching a stupid T.V show or attempting to impart moral lessons to a baby assassin.

I turn on my heel.

I’ve still got the transmitter.

I can do something with that.

Three hours later, I’ve combed the apartment – the halls. The streets. Hell, the rooftops too. (Did my neighbours see me? … yes. Did I give them another excuse? No.)

The transmitter is in pieces in front of me, my new laptop is to the side. I’ve got to download a SOLAREC program and modify it to even _hope_ to crack the thing.

I do it and … it doesn’t work.

_Nothing works._

Zilch.

Zero.

Nada.

Damn it. Bloody _damn it._

Whatever I try _it won’t work_. And every minute that ticks by is a minute that Damian is in their hands. _Their hands._

I review my options.

Sitting on the tiled floor with my stomach cramping more than I’d like to admit, for a brief movement, I think of Oracle.

I could send her a description of the transmitter. She’d get it cracked with a snap of the fingers.

But … the last time we interacted I _may_ have launched a virus on her computer and I _may_ have _accidentally_ had a row with her. Which … we’d never done before. Even as Catwoman and Batgirl. Words were exchanged and her true opinion of me may have slipped out.

(Like Batman, like ex-Batgirl.)

I _may_ have become heated and lashed out, using words to slash and wielding cruelty like a whip.

Would she even believe me if I asked her for help?

…

Nope.

Well.

_Possibly._

But how to even get hold of her?

Once upon a time, I’d been given – _brief_ and _temporary –_ access to their communications network but everything had been encrypted and if I _had_ kept a record of it … well, that was back in Gotham. Behind a wall in an apartment I hadn’t been in since Zatanna had zapped my mind.

Besides, the Bats of Gotham?

Yeah, their opinion of me is low. (Was low. Because I’m dead now. Can’t forget my apparent zombie status. Charming.)

After I saw the light about Batman, myself, and my pathetic wish that perhaps we had something _real_ … I _may_ have burned some bridges.

Years. It was _years_ that I clung to those beliefs. Always believed that somehow, in some way, we would have made it. It wasn’t always apparent – in the forefront of my mind – I enjoyed myself on the way. But it always lingered in the back of my mind … Batman and I? We were _destiny_. Yin and yang. Perfectly balanced.

I know, _I know_ \- what an idiot.

I should have _known_ better.

My life should have taught me that.

But still – it took years for the scales to drop from my eyes. For the Final Disillusionment to take place. (I’m grateful for that. Better to live your life with truth than to tell yourself lies over and over again.)

 _(“Selina,”_ he’d asked. “ _What’s wrong?”)_

The fault didn’t lie in our stars - it lay with us. (Or more, specifically, with a certain Dark Crusader Who Needed To Take A Freakin’ Chill Pill.)

And I embraced the persona that Batman had handed to me – the person who he _believed_ I was (not the person he _hoped_ I could be).

I stole. Brilliantly and with panache.

I deceived. I lied. I exploited.

I burned all the bridges I had unknowingly and unwittingly built.

I was a full Gotham Rogue. Not to be trusted. Even got put Arkham once. (Huge misunderstanding - entirely Harley’s fault.)

There was no more ‘ _Robin, go run forensics at the scene over while I ... investigate Catwoman_ ', no more ‘ _Hey Catwoman, I’m having a takeout on stakeout, wanna join?’_ no more, ‘ _So, Catwoman – do’you reckon he’ll ask you to slap a batsignal to your chest?’_

I became the enemy.

It was a busy time and then I gave up on it. It was exhausting. I couldn’t sustain the whole ‘I’m an evil villain, hear me cackle!’ routine.

Eddie does it a lot better (though last I heard, he was looking into online therapy.) He _commits._

Oh, it was _fun_. Mostly. But bitterness always just _there_. Disappointment. And rage too – an ever-present low humming in the back of my mind.

(You wanted a _villain_? Fine. _You’ll get one_.)

I went back to my old ways, though sans the Bats; I avoided them like the plague. Though sometimes – because I was weak – I would find items that reminded me of some of ex-Robins. I’d leave them at my place on 22nd Street. They’d disappear, but I’m pretty sure I had a squatter there so … I’m sure he or she got a kick out of a first edition Scott, a blueprint to a weird safe I'd found interesting, or a particularly good book on mental health.

Time passed on, Ivy - _Ivy!_ \- gave me hobby advice ( _orchids_!), I hired a therapist, I fired a therapist, and I joined the Justice League of America – moment of madness, let’s say it never happened yada yada yada - Zatanna got into my brain (may her fishnet tights strangle her blah blah blah) and blam! I’m dead.

That’s the timeline.

Result? I wasn't on the Wayne Christmas card list and none of them attended my funeral.

It doesn’t stop me from picking up the phone though.

(It’s for Damian – not for me. Whatever Batman’s feelings regarding the late Selina Kyle, he would not be blinded by them to the plight of a child _._ In all my contingency plans, this was step one. Or step three or four or twenty. It was always _part_ of the plan. Not always the first step, but there nonetheless. An admission of that this? This wasn’t about me.)

The landline is most likely tapped, so I find a burner phone that I had stashed at the bottom of a drawer. (You can take the cat out of Gotham, but never Gotham out of the cat.)

There isn’t much time.

I stare at the small phone in my hand. Years, it’s been _years_ since I’ve dialed this number. And once I have? It will all change.

Everything.

I doubt Batman would think highly of _Catwoman_ of all people doing custody visits with his son.

There’s a lump in my throat.

That doesn’t matter though – does it?

What matters is Damian.

For a brief moment, I turn coward - I consider just ditching it – picking up a bag and heading out, trying to pick up traces of Damian. I can do it because _I am a strong, capable, confident thief and yes, I don’t have THAT many resources, and all my old contacts have shriveled up but I could do this and still stay off the radar and be considered dead and no one would know but –_

Screw it. This isn’t about me.

Time for a resurrection.

I hit the digits. Press call.

It’s a crappy line.

I wait for a seeming eternity.

“Wayne Residence,” comes a familiar voice.

There isn’t time to let a rush of nostalgia fill me. _Late nights, oolong tea,_ and _would ‘Miss be staying for breakfast?’_ echo around my brain.

I ignore it.

“Alfred,” I say. “This is Selina Kyle.”

There is a silence at the end of the line. For a moment, I wonder if it’s been disconnected. And then:

“Miss Kyle, I understood that you had gone on a _permanent_ vacation. May I say how delighted I am to hear that it was only … temporary.”

“Thank you. Is, er, Bruce there?”

“Master Bruce is unfortunately on a business trip.”

League business then. “Did he tell you when he would be back?”

“I’m afraid he was not forthcoming with that knowledge. May I be of any assistance, Miss Kyle?”

“Tell him …" Talia and _Bruce Wayne_ are known acquaintances, aren’t they? “Talia Al-Ghul has something of his. She might be reluctant to part with it.” Kill me; I have to say it: “He, er, helped _create_ it. Er, contributed? Shit. Shoot. Um.” I used to be much better at euphemisms. “It will look good at the Manor. But it will be very fragile. Like a _Ming vase_. And … Alfred? Please. It’s urgent.”

“Ah. I see.”

Oh really, Alfred? I wonder if you do.

There’s another pause: “Might I inquire as to where you are currently located?”

“Southern Italy. I’m moving. Transitory state. No fixed address.”

“And the item?”

“Disappeared. Potentially put back in place with Talia. Highly likely.”

“You were in possession of it?”

Is that _guilt,_ I feel? Surely not!

“Alfred, _please._ Contact Bruce. With every moment, it’s going to grow more damaged.”

I don’t hear a noise, precisely. But something - some awareness - creeps up my spine. _There’s someone in the apartment with me._

“Goodbye,” I say softly and switch the phone off.

A small, round object clatters into the room.

It’s hissing slightly.

Oh. How nice.

Here we go again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i guess i've found it hard to post this chapter because ... this is commitment to THE PLOT now. things are HAPPENING. but here we are! posting it! with plot!
> 
> until next time ... same bat time! same bat channel!
> 
> NEXT TIME:
> 
> I don’t even have a moment to think: ALAS! WOE! HOW THE MIGHTY CAT HAS FALLEN.


	24. Selina Kyle Is Bloody Brilliant At Martial Arts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lights out.

It turns out that it _is_ possible to boot a tear gas bomb out of the room like a soccer ball. And break a window while I'm at it. And alarm the neighbors. And the neighborhood dogs. And battle an assassin. Scratch that. Make that _three_ assassins.

It’s possible to be so gosh darn good at martial arts and combat that you can take a man down with a _thumb_. Heck, play some freaking _Mozart_ because this shi-stuff is _ballet._

_…_

_…_

Why yes, thank you for noticing. I _am_ lying.

I last two minutes.

Old Selina would have lasted longer and taken them all down. 

Present Selina – AKA _moi_ – is rusty and _apparently_ super dead according to the majority of online forums and a tombstone and also doesn’t dodge a knock-out dart.

I’m big enough to admit that. Stupid enough to let that happen. Tut, tut. What a fool.

I'd like to think that I hold my own and deliver some very vicious damage, but then ... in the middle of throat punch-ball kick-eye jab combo I start to black out. I last a further fifteen seconds. I am slammed into a wall. My fault; I lost track of the third assassin.

_Amateur._

Something hits the back of my head.

I don’t even have a moment to think: ALAS, WOE! HOW THE MIGHTY CAT HAS FALLEN.

I don’t think of Damian.

Of Batman.

No fine sentiments from me.

No wishes to have lived a better life. No ticker-tape of regrets.

I think: _huh_

Lights out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... SO THAT HAPPENED.
> 
> until next time ... same bat time! same bat channel!
> 
> NEXT TIME:
> 
> I did not have a contingency plan for this scenario.


	25. Selina Kyle Is Not A Pig Fan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. Did you hear that, Damian? I didn’t even tell her to go and eff herself. Character meet a startling moral growth.

**Things I have contingency plans for:**

  * Someone taking Damian from his classes, the custom tracker I ordered on the internet (still hasn’t arrived, replacement hasn’t arrived either, replacement for the replacement hasn’t arrived … could it be I’ve been … _ripped off_?) working brilliantly. Outcome? Damian saved!
  * Getting mugged, defeating attacker with aplomb, filmed, put on the internet, Batman thinks _who does that magnificently elegant woman with the sensual right-foot-to-the nose REMIND me of?_ Outcome? … still haven’t worked that out. It’s a half plan. It’s a half plan of a half plan. It’s a quarter contingency plan.
  * The League discovering our whereabouts, putting our home under surveillance, me: noticing. Damian: noticing. Outcome? Selina and Damian – gone! Poof! Like the wind. Vanished. _Where did they GO with such STYLE such GRACE?!_
  * _Etc etc etc and so on and so forth._



**Things I don’t:**

  * No warning. No alarms tripped. No new neighbours. No heads up. Just a typical day in a typical week in a typical life of a typical cat-burglar.



I wake up.

One moment – nothing.

The next – everything.

Honestly? Slightly shocked.

I was certain that that was it for Selina Kyle. Ninth life finally used up. No more escapes. Not more of anything.

But alas, life is cruel and there is no rest for the moderately wicked.

I sat up, clutching my head.

First impression? The overwhelming smell. Think of a barnyard. Take that smell and shove it directly into your nose.

Second? The _sound._

Squealing. Oinking. Banging against doors.

Anybody who wasn’t born and bred in Gotham would think: _clearly I am locked in a barn. No doubt, I will find a way out. My life is in danger, but with wit and cunning, I will conspire with the animals and find a way out._

Okay, so they _wouldn’t_ think that, but you know what I’m driving at.

A Gothamite? _Oh shit. Killer pigs._

My head is pounding – like the worst hangover you can picture. I feel queasy and ready to vomit.

(I decide that is an excellent idea. If my insides prefer to be on my outsides, who am I to say nay? I vomit. My head hurts the worse for it.)

I start to feel around my surroundings.

The sound of the pigs is getting louder.

They aren’t in the pen, or wherever I am right now. But they soon will be.

And if I know Talia, she won’t resist an occasion to gloat. It should come just before the pigs are released, for dramatic effect. I don’t know how much time I have. Someone has soaked me in … I sniff an arm … shit, _feed_ or something?

I get closer to the sound of the pigs. Metal bars. Do they go straight up to the ceiling? Do they have a hatch that they disappear to? I feel along with my fingers.

Release them.

Sigh in disappointment.

I start to circle this pen … pit … thing that I’m stuck in.

(And if you’re picturing me walking gracefully with dignity … thank you. That’s kind. I’m not. But it would be nice to pretend that I’m not staggering like someone who’s had twelve drinks too many.)

There’s no way out. No convenient drains. The walls are smooth – there’s nothing to grip onto them.

Nothing at all.

Then there’s a crackle of a speaker – presumably a hidden one.

“Miss Selina Kyle.” Talia Al’Ghul’s voice is cultured. Exotic. She injects just the right amount of disdain into her voice. _You are nothing,_ she is saying. _And how dare you – a mere fly – put havoc to my plans?_

“Hello?” I call out, trying to add a bit of desperation into my voice. It helps if you _are_ feeling desperate – which I am – but I like to add a touch of melodrama. “Who’s there?! Let me out!”

“And so the cat is cornered,” narrates Talia creatively. “How … pathetic.”

The pigs seem to be getting louder.

“Listen, I don’t know who you are or what the hell you’re doing … hold on! Is that _you …_ the daughter of … oh _gee_ … what’s his name? The guy who _hates_ the idea of old age. Is _obsessed_ with a good skincare routine. Tabitha? I want to say Tabitha. Is it Tabitha?”

If my memory is right – and it might not be, who knows – I’m facing the bars. Am opposite them. I edge closer, so that I am in the middle of this – kill pen?

“Quiet, _harlot!_ You know my name.”

“I do?”

“Astonishingly, you are not as ignorant as you appear.”

“I’m about to die horribly. Let me at least _enjoy_ pissing you off.”

There was a pause.

And then: “As _charming_ as that would be for you, I must decline. You don’t have much time – I’m sure you’ve realised. You’ve grown soft. Trespassed into territory that wasn’t yours to walk.”

I stare out into the darkness of the pen. “Was that … an attempt at a metaphor? I'm sure you could do better. Why don't you try again?"

“Be silent! You are in no position to talk back to ME. Death is imminent and well deserved – you took my father’s and my beloved’s legacy and _ruined_ him.”

“Did you just call your father your 'beloved'?” I question. My head is still pounding but the adrenaline is rushing in. Nearly time. “Because _that’s_ not weird.”

I start to strip down to my underwear. Throw my clothing into a corner behind me as Talia continues on. Excellent. She doesn’t have a video feed. Or if she does, she’s not looking at it. She’d comment on the extra pounds.

“ _You know to whom I refer, you cursed clod of diseased dung._ You took my _flesh_ and _blood_ and you fed him with soft _things_ and weak _emotions_. You have irreversibly _spoiled_ a work of ART. You took the vessel of the greatest heritage known to man and carelessly tried to teach him to be _human_ when he is so much _more._ ”

Damn. It’s warm in here. Stripped to my underwear and I’m sweating like a, well, _pig_.

Ha.

The irony.

A thunderous rattling. The pigs. They must be clustering against the bars. Throwing themselves against them. They smell whatever the hell it is has been thrown on my body. And they want it.

“You will pay for your crime,” Talia says. “You must have known that I would find you. No matter how well you hid yourself. There is no person, time, or location my arm cannot reach.”

"Hmmm. Dramatic, but _oh_ -kay."

There is a little humming noise. Like cogs are turning and something is lifting.

“Die, Catwoman,” says Talia. “And know that though I must break and build up again, you have won _nothing_ \- you are mere filth, a shallow, _common_ criminal.”

“Tabitha Allie Sea Gull,” because I am petty and I hate her guts because she allowed a _child_ to be beaten and didn’t see innocence lost but greatness gained. “You are complete bitch.”

Yeah. Did you hear _that,_ Damian? I didn’t even tell her to go and _eff_ herself. Character meet a startling moral growth.

And then there isn’t time because I can almost _feel_ the frantic battering of starving pigs who are about to break free. The gate. It's lifting. They're free now. Free. Okay.

Run.

Towards them.

Leap.

There is a tremendous squeal and I feel them rush beneath my foot not a moment after I leap.

I land on the bars and they wrench my arms as they head upwards. I can _hear_ the pigs pour in, throwing themselves at my pile of clothes in a corner.

Wait for it ...

I drop. The opening is in front of me, I can’t risk staying much longer for fear the pigs will turn. Feed- _whatever it is_ soaked clothes won't last them that long. The noise they are making! It’s bloody horrifying. Nightmare material. Top-tier Gotham Rogue level.

I run. Blind as a bat down the passage the pigs came from. Nearly slam right into a wall.

There’s muck between my bare toes and I’m in my underwear and there are hungry pigs in some sort of pen behind me and _I did not have a contingency plan for this scenario_.

(I suppose that’s a good thing; I was a more instinctual creature anyway.)

In another pen now. No pigs. The light is dim and the bars are low enough to leap over. I take a running leap. I’m beauty and freakin’ grace, that’s what. I ace the landing and feel that thrill that I thought only a good heist could provide.

And then I slip in a puddle and land on my back.

Figures.

 _We are all in the gutter and some of us are looking at the stars,_ Oscar Wilde once said poetically. It doesn’t apply to this situation. Obviously.

There’s no one around, _yet_.

Alarms blare.

Jinxed it.

I sit up and glare at the pen. There’s a door there – to open the pen bars. How nice. How lovely. I could have _opened_ it.

Instead I leapt over it.

 _(Conserve your energy_ , I can almost _hear_ Batman growl in my ear.)

I pull myself to my feet.

Time to go.

I know what an onlooker would think: _Did Talia Allie Gaul_ REALLY _let Selina Kyle, Wrecker of Minds and Heirs escape just like that?_

To that I’d like to say:

…

Well. I can’t say it. Being responsible and all that shi- stuff.

But to answer – no.

No, she would not.

Because there she is - Talia herself, standing in the doorway with a sword in her hand. I swear there must be an invisible breeze somewhere. It's all very dramatic.

How _fabulous._

Time to crack out the claws.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've actually finished this story now - just a few more chapters to go. You'll notice that I've made this into a series: 'hobbies and other deadly perils' There's a reason but ... SPOILERS.
> 
> So here is all the action and killer pigs because apparently THAT IS WHAT THIS FIC NEEDED. 
> 
> Thank you for all your comments, hits, and kudos! Until next time ... same bat time! same bat channel! 
> 
> NEXT TIME:
> 
> I’m a creature stripped of everything except for one need, one desire – to save the brat.


	26. Selina Kyle, Inadvertent Underwear Model and Justice Seeker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What did I do?” she has the audacity to ask.
> 
> “An irredeemable thing,” I tell her. “You took a defenceless child – your own flesh-and-blood! - and you didn’t protect him.”

Picture this:

Selina Kyle AKA Catwoman – that’s me - in her underwear, black choppy hair, beautiful eyes, exquisitely battered body, no weapon but just a Profound Thirst For Revenge! It’s a _Look._

Talia – that’s Hell's Mother of The Year - fully clothed, long hair inconveniently falling over one eye, and _a sleek, sharp, and shiny sword._

She looks at me coolly.

“Prepare for death,” she says.

“Talia,” I tell her – equally as calm – and ignoring the astonishingly cliched line she’s said without a flicker of self-awareness (you’d _think_ that _some_ people would be more creative in their threats. You'd _think._ ) “Before we start this _painfully_ embarrassing fight – for you, might I add - I need you to know something.”

“Speak.”

Kind of her. In the shadows beyond the doorway, I can see shapes shifting. She comes with a guard.

Good.

I smile pleasantly. She looks somewhat taken aback.

“Let’s ignore your genocidal dad for a second-“

She hisses. Her sword rises.

“-and focus on Damian being the Batman’s son. And heir.” Am I having this conversation? Really? I want to rip her throat out. It’s big of me, but I choose not to. “The way you were _‘raising’_ him? Hmm. Shopping him out to sadists with no child-rearing skills, showing him approximately _zero_ maternal affection and oh! I don’t know letting grown-ass adults _beat the crap out of him_. Yeah? Ring any bells? Well it’s contrary to every belief that Batman has _ever_ had.”

Her nose is skyscraper high.

“ _You_ think you know my Beloved?”

“ _Your_ Belo- Shut it. _You_ think that a soul-less killing machine who has had _every trace of humanity_ beaten out of him would be _a worthy recipient_ of Batman’s cape? _Puh-lease.”_ I raise an eyebrow. I’m still smiling. It feels hideous on my face. As if the Joker’s gas has got to me.

 _I hate this woman with every fibre of my soul_.

“What you did to that little boy?” I tell her. It’s as though I can’t get the words out. That the feelings – the memories – the watching the little brat’s nightmares stretching into the night and seeing his flinching and watching his bruises heal and his smiles appear _finally_ – it’s all tumbling together, mixing with stupid _Inkle Dinkle_ and balls and balls of yarn and evenings staring at the stars together.

 _(Perhaps one day I will study them,_ he said once. Like the future was no longer a thing that was a burden. Like hope was a thing that could be dared.)

“What did I do?” she has the audacity to ask.

“An irredeemable thing,” I tell her. “You took a defenceless child – your _own flesh-and-blood! -_ and _you didn’t protect him_.”

Look at that. My fists are clenched. _How could she. How COULD she? He is her SON._

She is looking at me, appalled. “You _dare_ -!“

“Yes.”

“Because of _you_ ,” she says, her lips curled into _such_ an attractive snarl. “Because of _you,_ I may be forced to start again. _You_ are to blame for that. The consequences rest at _your_ feet.”

“ _My_ feet?” I demand. “How in _any time, realm, or universe_ does the _consequence_ of _your actions_ rest at _my_ feet?”

“You ruined him,” she says.

“On the contrary, I _saved_ him.”

She doesn’t like that.

And so we fight.

That’s simple, isn’t it? Four words: ‘And so we fight’.

We do more than that.

It’s a conversation. The words I couldn’t find become a punch here, a vicious swipe of the leg there. The hatred she wants to spill becomes a sharp blade sweeping in my direction, scouring my skin.

I’ve never _hated_ before.

Not like this.

She has done _terrible_ things. She let her _son_ … she told them … she _allowed_ him …

My childhood was a bad one. No one stepped in. But _she_ could have stepped into _his._

I throw myself at her and all the Gotham nights of bruises and chases and meddling in things too big for me blur and merge into this one long moment.

I use everything I’ve ever known. Every skill. Everything. To avoid her blade. To attack.

We are through the doorway.

There are shadows around her – her guards. They are here, yet they don’t interfere.

She is furious with me.

Great.

Bloody brilliant, in fact.

It’s pathetic, really. But I become fury incarnate. I wasn’t made to be this. I shaped myself to be the Catwoman, cat burglar. Not _righteous avenger_. Not _bringer of justice_.

It doesn’t fit well, and it shows. Good thing, it’s not my long-term plan, isn’t it?

My body is a tapestry of angry slashes, nicks, and near misses.

I’ve smashed her nose and bruised an eye.

I need to force her back a little … just a little more … there’s a hall to her left … stairs to her right … if I can run …

I slip beneath the sword as it sings over my head, shove a foot firmly into her gut and use the force of it to spring up the stars.

There’s an outraged curse.

She is at my heels.

But I’m faster.

I’m quick.

I run up the stairs, intercept one unfortunate man coming down – not entirely sure how I do it – I duck and use my instincts and he’s stumbling down, falling on Talia – I hear the shout.

Damian won’t be here. He’ll have been whisked far away from me. I need to escape. Run to fight another day.

I can do it. Obviously. I’ve escaped from worse.

What’s a few knife wounds?

What’s a little blood loss?

Adrenaline sings in my ears and I run down a hall, down a passageway, through a bedroom, and then there’s a window.

A way out.

Someone is behind me.

I’m not sure who but it feels like every person who has ever chased me in my entire life has morphed into one blank, unseen being that is at my heels.

Breathe.

I can do this.

I can escape and then I’ll find Damian.

I’ll protect him.

She won’t ever touch him again.

Stupid. Where are my contingency plans now?

I’d grown soft.

No.

_Concentrate._

I feel the cool glass beneath my palm, I fumble with the latch, fling the window wide open, and smear my blood on the windowsill.

There’s a small, ugly rug beside the bed.

Right. There’s a bed. Room enough to-

I step on the rug, crouch and pull at the bed frame itself, sliding underneath it. I’m too focused to be impressed with the accidental smoothness of the move; the rug would make sure I wouldn’t leave a blood trail away from the windowsill.

Distraction. They’ll think I’ve leapt out.

Control my breathing.

Steady.

Steady.

Breathe, Selina.

 _They’re here_.

I’m going to gloss over what happens next. Let’s pretend I kept my dignity and found some clothes and got the hell out of dodge.

…

Thank you. It was a beautiful few moments of profound delusion.

Let’s _not_ think about:

  * bleeding
  * crawling on top of a wardrobe (… yes. It was as cramped and as hurried and horrid as it sounds.)
  * finding a toilet
  * whacking an unfortunate pisser out
  * pretending to be the unfortunate pisser
  * sneaking into the first aid chamber
  * discovering that the Assassin stronghold was in the process of being abandoned while I was passed out in a cupboard



It was a doozy of a day. And now, here I am, stowed away in a freakin’ plane with some thermal clothing I’ve stolen and a blistering headache.

Yeah.

 _Thinking clearly_ is suddenly a concept I’m not aware of. The ideas of _style_ and _finesse_ are very vague and wearing a catsuit feels like a thousand years ago.

I feel … naked.

That’s it.

 _Naked_.

I have nothing. I’m a creature stripped of everything except for one need, one desire – to save the brat.

Every time I close my eyes, I see him.

I try to be cynical: _Selina Kyle,_ I tell myself. _The world is a hard, cruel place. Children are hurt every day. No one steps in for them. No one stepped in for you. Stop panicking. Stop … everything. What’s one boy in a sea of millions?_

But, because I’m not good at taking any sort of advice – even the ‘ _keep refrigerated’_ on a fruit bottle kind – I ignore that echo of an old version of me. The sort who believed in protecting Number One.

( _Moi._ )

I push her away. Slash her metaphorical face for good measure. Good riddance. Bah, humbug. What a bitch.

And so I crouch in the hold of the plane, staring into the pitch black and trying not to think at all. (It’s all about the mind – isn’t it? Mind over matter.)

I don’t think.

I don’t think when the plane lands. I don’t think when old skills – that were once as natural as breathing – are forced back into use. They feel foreign to me now. Like rusty, cob-webbed things.

I get myself out of the plane and I get myself into the League’s Fortress.

( _She’s still got it!_ someone, somewhere doesn’t crow. _Selina Kyle – cat-burglar and all around ‘meh’-guy has STILL got it!_ )

Whatever ingenuity I have, I use.

I’m not a cat cornered, you know; I’m not on the defensive.

This isn’t about me, really. Not at all. It feels as though I have seeped out of my own skin. That _Selina Kyle_ exists – of course she does – but she has forgotten her own self so utterly that all I have left is a machine that I have trained to one purpose.

And yeah, sue me for being bloody overdramatic but …

… but _Damian_.

Isn’t that enough?

Isn’t he reason enough?

Before my accidental death, I tried to steer clear of the big guys, the power players – sure! I got involved if the risks were low and the rewards high (screw it, it’s a time for honesty – I got involved if the payoff was freakin’ high) – but I wasn’t _daunted_. Just sensible.

(A cat’s got nine lives, not a million or a Lazarus Pit. Unlike _some_ people.)

And right now, I’m not daunted and I’m being sensible.

For a little boy who was never given a choice.

I’ve done my duty – I’ve informed Batman. He’s no idiot. When he gets back, he will follow the trail. Uncover everything. If I fail, he’ll find Damian. He’ll take him home. He’ll give him a life – better than Talia’s. Bruce is many things … so many things … but, but he _tries_ as a father. As much as he can. Perhaps he’ll even be a good one to Damian.

(He’s had enough practice and I did give him at least _ten_ parenting books. Yes, it was a joke at the time but then he seriously – painfully and constipatingly – _discussed_ one with me. It was as bizarre as you’d except. Oddly endearing though; stronger woman than me wouldn’t have been able to resist ‘ _Selina … I do … try’_. Be still my beating heart. Father of the Year! Does he endanger his wards? … yes! Is this irresponsible? … oh yes! _But does he try_? YES!)

One day … one day, the little boy will put on a suit.

Hell, he’ll probably think that he’s _chosen_ to do it; it’s the air in Gotham. In Wayne Mansion. You become infected with the fervour of taking the law into your own hands. In thinking that night-time and a suit equate to _doing the right thing_.

In thinking that in donning Robin’s costume, the Batman will look at you with an approving eye.

But I’m not going after Damian to stop that.

I’m going after him because Batman might not get there quick enough.

Because I _promised_ I would.

_Because Damian._

And that’s enough for me.

And so, I slip into this odd Fortress and I _make it_ because _of course I do_.

Inside, it’s a maze. A perfect, orderly hive. Immaculately kept. Impeccable architecture. Cosy, murder-y vibe that the assassins must really feel. You can just imagine them stepping into some sort of Middle Eastern Home Depo and asking for _‘the spring collection, in the shade of death! disease! destruction! Excuse me? Warm mustard tones? You dare give me the PREVIOUS season’s cast offs?’_

And then … I get caught.

Because I may be Selina Kyle, Catwoman extraordinaire but I also am:

  * suffering from blood loss
  * have done approximately zero intel on this Fortress (for reason on this catastrophic oversite, please see above)
  * and yes, the _CATastrophic_ was a pun (see the first point for reason)



The one thing I can be proud of is this: I don’t go down without a fight. I fight dirty. There is a nice pile of assassins at my feet before I’m brought down. Or at least, there could be. I may be hallucinating.

Crap.

Why does this _happen_ to me?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND HERE WE ARE, NEARLY AT THE END OF ALL THINGS.
> 
> Once more, thank you for reading, commenting and kudoing!! I really appreciate the feedback and support!
> 
> Until next time ... same bat time, same bat channel!
> 
> NEXT TIME:
> 
> And there he is.
> 
> Damian.


	27. Selina Kyle, Freakin' Moralist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This is not a request, Damian. This is a command.”

A girl can only come back to consciousness so many times before it gets old. Old hat. _So_ last year.

And yet, here I am, fighting my way back to reality.

Reality is odd. Bizarre.

It’s me, on my knees in a small chamber with low stone arches and a hostile welcome. My vision blurs all the lines and my head manages to both pound _and_ feel like a balloon wanting to escape so, hurrah for multitasking.

Oh. Oh yes. Someone is _talking_.

“… has to die.”

Who has to die?

“She has wronged you.”

Wronged who?

“Take back your honour. Make an example of her.”

Huh?

“But _Mother._ ”

Focus, Selina. _Focus._ What the hell is happening?

“This is not a _request,_ Damian. This is a _command._ ”

The scrape of a blade against the floor. Feet coming to stand in front of me. Hard hands on my back, forcing me further done.

I raise my head as much as I can. Blink.

And there he is.

Damian.

He is not looking at me. He is looking at his mother. She is slightly to my left, staring calmly down at him.

I blink and my vision blurs again.

 _Huh_ , I think dazedly.

“Mother, what example would her death make and to whom? There is no one that would benefit. In the eyes of the world, she is deceased already.”

He is pronouncing each word so carefully. And she won’t notice. She won’t know how far he’s come. He looks so small. He looks so _weighted_ , as if the world is bearing down on his shoulders and crushing him.

And suddenly, in his place, I see a small Bruce, and my stupid heart _aches_.

She touches his shoulder. I suppose she thinks it’s a maternal touch. He hides his flinch well. I want to simultaneously puke and to rip her hand off him. 

“If she is dead already, does it matter if she dies again?” Talia’s voice is so warm, so _reasonable_. She crouches beside him and looks into his eyes. “She _took_ you from me! She _ruined_ you! Made you _soft_.”

She takes his hand which is holding a sword - I _swear_ is as long as he is – and lifts it slightly.

“I want you back, Damian. I should not have left you so long with them, in the mountains, but the blame cannot be laid solely at _my_ feet. If you kill her, you can come back. You can be the worthy heir of your grandfather and bear your glorious heritage with pride. _You will be worthy again._ ”

“He already _is_ worthy,” I say and the words simply slip out.

His head snaps to mine.

“Brat-“ I start to say.

But Talia flicks her finger and one of my captors lash out, smashing a meaty fist into my jaw. The world wavers and swirls.

My blood tastes metallic.

I spit a mouthful out.

“I will not do this,” says Damian – and his little voice _tries_ to sound so certain and so sure but there is an edge of hysteria. “Ask me anything else, Mother. _Anything_ else. But not this.”

I can’t keep my head raised. My neck is refusing to bloody cooperate. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her move.

She is standing over him. Her voice is cold: “Then you will suffer the consequences.”

I don’t think _the consequences_ are on the same level as my _time out step_.

Oh shit.

Shitshitshit.

She’s Talia Al-Ghul, isn’t she? She’s a cold-hearted bi- _Because of you, I may be forced to start again,_ she said me. _Start again. Again. Start again. What does-_

He is drawing himself up. Squaring his shoulders. I can _hear_ the defiance in his voice: “I am pwe- _prepared_ to accept the punishment.”

Kid.

Brat.

Little demon.

I want to cry for you.

“Every action has a consequence,” said Talia to her son. “And though all that justice cries out and demands a fitting retribution for your failure to obey my commends … as your _loving_ mother – I will offer you one more chance.”

I raise my head – just a little, just to confirm.

She has her hand on her gun.

He is glaring at her, a fist clenched. I hear the quiet, in-draw of breath that will lead to him saying-

“Kid,” I say and this time – thank God – no one punches me.

He looks into my eyes. His are so green.

Oh _little demon_ , you look so scared. I can see it in you.

“I’m from Gotham,” I say, trying to make him _understand_. “You’ve got to do what you’ve got to do to survive, there – on the streets.”

A mocking sound from Talia. She says something derogatory. She may be right – I sound like I’m from _The Godfather_ or something.

He says nothing at all.

His eyes are burning into mine. I should do something. _I should do something_. But I can’t, bloody hell, I can barely keep my head raised. I can do only this.

“Damian, I _understand._ ” She’ll make him take my head and he’s just a little _boy_ he might not have the strength to do a clean swipe and he’ll have to _hack_ ohshit she’ll make him _hack_ and he _won’t forget and he’s just a freakin kid!_

“There is _nothing_ to forgive,” I say.

It’s a benediction.

It’s redemption – yes, before he needs it.

“You’ve never been a failure to me.” I smile. Try to inject a little comfort. Show bloodied teeth instead. _Nice going, Selina._ “You’ll _never_ be a failure to me.”

Talia doesn’t like that one.

Someone strikes me so hard that when I blank in and out for a second. I’m on the floor. My forehead against the stone slabs. They are dark. Stained with … is that _my_ blood? Huh. What a nice shade.

“Damian, you must do it now.”

They drag me to my knees again.

Step back.

I feel like a puppet loosed from its strings.

I rest my hands against my knees and try not to sway, to puke, to slide to the floor.

There is a silence.

I ready for … whatever it is that is coming. And I don’t think of hiding fear, I don’t think of the pain that is coming. In fact, I don’t think of me at all. I should – I am _me_ after all. But I can’t. I just think of him. I think of all the disappointments I’ve faced in my life … the fact that Damian Wayne was not protected as he should have been will be the greatest.

(He is _only_ a little boy.)

This is _my_ greatest failure. My biggest fault. My greatest wrong.

And so I can take this.

For him.

Dramatic, how _bloody_ dramatic but … but sometimes there’s a time for that, isn’t there? I can die. I can do that. I can … not _vomit_ right now. Or faint. That would be good too. Perhaps Bruce will find him and perhaps he will help him find the right path and perhaps … perhaps Bruce will protect him.

Yeah.

That would be good.

It isn’t _completely_ quiet – there is a rustle of the guards’ garments as they move. I can hear my own breathing, choked and jagged.

Why has nothing happened?

Oh.

They are waiting.

For him to-

“Mother, I will not.”

It’s his voice. It is quiet, low. Shaking perhaps. What has he-?

He’s refused her.

And Talia has a gun.

And Talia is cold and ruthless and _does not_ accept failure.

And Talia _would start again_.

Newsflash: it turns out I may be some kind of meta human; I didn’t think I had any strength left.

I do.

I leap. Hurl my body so it collides with his. The sound of a gunshot thunders in the chamber.

Small hands are wrenched away from me.

I lie there, stunned and bleeding like _freakin’_ roadkill.

Shouting. Scuffling.

The kid is gone. I can’t _hear_ him. Or see him. I can’t see much of anything, really. I stare blindly at anything, grasp at the ground. I need to connect with reality. I need to make sure he is _safe_. I am drowning.

(There was only _one_ gunshot sound, wasn’t there? Only one. Perhaps she’s reconsidered. Perhaps this was her plan all along. He isn’t dead, oh God, please may he not be dead.)

I can feel the cold stone against my cheek. Shadows pass around me. Sounds of a struggle. Sounds of my own name being called.

(The world feels very far away. I’m going into shock, I think. And I’m bleeding.)

Look, I’m not a good person. And I think I get it now. I didn’t before. I _get_ what it _means._

(Of course, I get it right _now._ Death – what a cop out. I won’t have to _do_ anything about it. Just die. Properly this time.)

It isn’t about walking around with a stick up your arse and a holy-than-thou expression.

(No matter how hard I blink, I can’t clear my vision. I can’t _see._ )

It’s about … shit … it’s about _others_ and … _caring_ …

(I can’t feel my fingers. I’ll won’t feel my claws again or a whip clutched in my hand or the rough bite of concrete.)

… it’s about _others_ …

Pouring everything – everything! - out because you _care so much_ and _choose to show it_ and … it’s not about _perception,_ it’s not about _gain_ … it’s about …

I get _him_ now. Well, _a little._

(Someone _is_ calling my name. How nice. Frantic hands on my body. I can feel that. Even through the cold. Someone is applying pressure. I can feel _people_ about me but I’m not sure who or why or what or even when.)

No one has ever looked at me and said, _‘gee, that Selina Kyle! That’s one good person_.’

(Is the kid safe? I ask. But my lips don’t move and no sound comes. _Is Damian_ safe, I try again, frustrated. _You’re late_ , I want to say. _What convenient timing,_ I want to smirk. _Protect him_ , I want to beg. _No one else has._ )

I’ve never tried to be a good person. It’s never been a priority. Never – not even now. But I get it. _I get it now._ And in this – these last flickering moments of consciousness, with the world slipping away like quicksand – I think I understand what I never did before.

It’s about … oh how hilariously simplistic and if I get this wrong deduct all the points you want, _I’m freakin’ bleeding out here_ – it’s about _caring._

And shit.

(A small hand in mine.)

Sue me.

(A mountain. A monastery. A search for wool and then: a boy.)

 _I cared_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was tricky to write - there were several ways to go about it, but this is the one that I always wanted. Full circle, in a way.
> 
> (You'll note that this is a series, and that this isn't the last chapter)
> 
> Until next time ... same bat time! same bat channel!
> 
> NEXT TIME:
> 
> .


	28. Selina Kyle, Resurrected

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Selina,” someone says.

I’m not dead.

If I was in Heaven, _would_ the angels put Inkle Dinkle on? Hmm? _Would they_? Of all the media that has ever been produced, would they _really_ choose a T.V show about a _cow_ that teaches moral lessons using _cow pats_? Yeah. _I don't think so._

This isn’t Hell. I feel _entirely_ too comfortable. I feel like I’m in a gentle cocoon of the finest thread-count sheets. And is that Damian’s voice I can hear? Is it? It is. Only he could make questions sound like threats.

 _Where is the remote?_ he asks, and then: _Is she awake? Has she slept too long? You should wake her now._

This can’t be Hell. Hell could not contain the heady relief that floods my body; _he is safe._

There’s a murmur. Movement in the room.

Warm sunlight bathing my face.

“Selina,” someone says.

Scratch that.

I _know_ who said it.

I know it like I know my own skin.

I open my eyes.

They clash with piecing blue.

My heart skips a beat and then two.

(Perhaps I’ve developed a heart palpitation, you know, with all the _nearly dying_ I’ve been doing lately.)

“Hello, Handsome,” I say. And then – with the greatest reluctance – “I can explain.”

Don’t take up knitting, kids.

It leads to finding things you never thought needed to be found, losing things you didn’t know you needed to lose, but most of all – having to embark on the _most_ awkward explanation of your life.

Knitting – it’s bloody _dangerous._

(And yet, despite everything, I don’t regret it – I couldn’t even if I tried because ... here comes Damian with relief in his eyes and he is _alive_ and _whole_ and I can’t … yes, I can’t see a single bruise.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen, I know this is short and I apologise for it but, for me, I think it concludes this particular thread (THE DANGERS OF KNITTING) of the story. Is the story itself over? No; there is still so much I want to indulge myself with. I want Batman to be more present, to explore his reaction to Selina's death and Zatanna's betrayal and the fact that he has had a SON with Talia - but above all - how he views Selina.
> 
> (Because yes, Selina's supposed death changed her; but, I think, it also changed a certain Dark Crusader.)
> 
> I want to explore a Selina who has endured the events of this story but still hasn't fundamentally changed what lies in her bones. (It's one thing to experience a revelation, it's quite another to continually act on it.)
> 
> So if you would like to continue following this particular iteration of BatCat - please subscribe to 'hobbies and other deadly perils'.
> 
> But even if you don't - I'd like to take a moment to say thank you. 
> 
> Thank you for the comments and the kudos and for simply reading this. Particularly during these past few weeks; they been a trifle tough and so to be able to interact with fellow Batman fans who read this fic AND DIDN'T MIND IT?? ... it has really helped provide a welcome escape for me.
> 
> Thanks for those who have read from when I first started posting this story, and for those who have just joined. 
> 
> Thank you, and perhaps see you next time? 
> 
> (... same bat time ... same bat channel.)


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